Survived in the Maze
by reddhede
Summary: Prequel to "Born in the Glade". The story of how Minho found love in the dark days of the early Glade.
1. Chapter 1

The box was terrifying – it was too dark to see, but the stale air seemed to retain a nauseating mixture of all the scents the box had ever contained. The girl was anchored to the floor, held there both by fear and the speed with which she was ascending into god-knew-what. She tucked her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible; all around her, animals snorted and whined, and crates crashed unceremoniously from one side of the small enclosure to the other.

Her heart was pounding so hard that it caused her body to jerk with every loud thump, rocking her so hard that she almost didn't notice they had stopped moving. Even the animals fell silent and froze in the anxious few moments in between their old lives and their uncertain new. The occupants of the box let out a collective gasp as metal ceiling creaked open, blinding them with bright sunlight; the panic returned as her eyes desperately sought to adjust to the new amount of information they were capable of taking in.

There was a moment of relief when her gaze landed on a pair of kind brown eyes. The boy smiled, but it was more sad than comforting. The tenuous connection was broken when a sound – almost like a grunt, and much more animal-like than any of the sounds the pigs and chickens had made – snapped her head to attention.

To her left was a group of about five boys. They didn't speak, but moved fluidly, like they were a single unit, a pack – when one stepped forward to investigate, another would take his place, holding the formation. In her peripheral vision, she saw some of the other boys begin to pick off supplies from the outer ring of the box, uninterested in the new resident of the place, but unwilling to get too close; but the five, they began to stalk slowly around her, as if circling their prey. The girl – she didn't even know her own name – avoided eye contact and didn't make any sudden movements.

"Come on, Whit, leave her alone," the boy with the kind eyes insisted, though his voice held no authority.

"Shut it, Newt," Whit snarled before cocking his head and taking a step toward the girl; he must have been the leader, because as soon as he moved, the other four formed around him. "Mmm, but didn't the Creators send us something sweet this time," he purred in a heavy Southern drawl. He leaned in close, looking but not touching. Yet. "Look up at me, sweetheart. I won't bite," he promised, flashing a cheshire cat grin that showed too many teeth.

"Don't touch me," she warned, soft but serious.

When she didn't comply with his request, he reached under her chin and pulled her face up until her eyes found his. "Don't be scared now, pretty thing. We'll take good care of you."

As she stared into Whit's eyes, a chill ran down her spine. His slow, lilting speech belied the predatory cunning that emanated from behind the cold, blue-grey orbs. In once glance she could tell he was smart and cruel and always got what he wanted – either willingly or by force. She wondered how many of these traits he was born with, and how many he had acquired in enduring whatever trap she herself had just been thrown into.

Unwilling to accept their "protection," and before the victorious glint left his soulless eyes, she felt around for the nearest hard, heavy object. Her fingers brushed a thin plank that had splintered off from one of the crates. Quicker than a rattlesnake strike, she swung the across Whit's face hard enough to draw blood and snap the piece of wood in half.

She took off running, not knowing where she was or where she was going, only where she was getting away from. A colorful array of curses followed her hasty escape.

"She really shouldn't have done that," Newt sighed.

Another voice, deep and velvety, chuckled in response. "She did warn him."

She ran until her chest burned and her legs buckled, collapsing against a tree and sliding down until her butt rested on the cool dirt. When she was no longer gasping for air, and after nearly jumping out of her skin every time there was a small noise, she was satisfied that no one had followed her and she could finally think. But thinking almost proved to be worse than running.

Name, name, name, name. Why couldn't she remember her own damn name? God it was frustrating – like her brain knew the answer, but only in a language that she didn't speak, and therefore couldn't give voice to. She growled in frustration and slammed her head back against the tree trunk a few times. A twig snapped to her right and she was just about to take off again when Newt stepped into view, hands raised in surrender and peace.

"I just wanted to see if you were alright," he explained, taking another step forward in question. She nodded her head – both in answer to his query and as an acknowledgement that she wouldn't try to bludgeon him too if he came closer. The dry leaves crumpled beneath his weight as he sat down several feet in front of her, intimate but not crowded. "What you did when you came up from the box, now I'm not saying Whit didn't have it coming," Newt said, and this time a genuine smile crinkled up the corners of his eyes, "but we're stuck here together, so you'd probably do better making friends rather than enemies," he suggested.

"I didn't see _you_ with any friends to back you up back there," she said petulantly, picking at the dirt that had gathered beneath her fingernails.

The sadness returned to taint Newt's expression. "There weren't always so few of us."

She was instantly contrite. Her plight had begun all but an hour earlier, and already she was ready to start clawing at the walls. What did she know about the struggles this boy – who had been nothing but kind to her – had gone through? "I'm sorry. I didn't –"

"It's alright, love," he interrupted, already back to his genial tone. She suspected that he was used to a little verbal abuse, based on his interaction with Whit earlier. "Do you remember your name?" She shook her head. "It'll come back to you. No one knows anything at first. Well, you know things, I guess, but you don't remember _how_ you know things."

She was beginning to get a headache. "Newt – it's Newt, right?" Newt's head bobbed up and down with enthusiasm, releasing his curly mop of hair into his eyes. "I'm sure you're just trying to be nice – make friends instead of enemies," she repeated his own advice back to him, rolling her eyes, "but I'd just really like to be alone for a while."

Newt's face fell and his shoulders slumped. It wasn't a question, and he wasn't one to push people beyond what they were willing to tolerate; but Newt had been desperate for someone to talk to for months. After Alby – who was in no condition to speak to anyone – and Minho – who was less talkative than the grievers – Newt had been there the longest. At first, the box had come up more frequently; once a week, then once every other week, and each time there were fewer and fewer supplies. He suspected that they were being tested, expected to become self-reliant and sustainable. But, because no one wanted to listen to his philosophies and speculations – and since the girl's arrival marked the first time an entire month had elapsed before the box came up – food was running low and desperation had begun to set in. Whispers ran through the Glade about the lengths each person was willing to go if the box never came back up. So by the time it did, everyone had grown tense and suspicious of those they once called friends, then pounced on the lifeline they had been thrown. Newt wasn't sure they should be so trusting of the gifts that could only have come from the damn people who put them there, but what else were they going to do?

Newt tossed her a can of food and a piece of fresh fruit. She didn't reach for it, only eyed it with suspicion. He sighed. "There are a plethora of horrible ways to die in this place. Starvation isn't one of them. At least, not yet," he joked, though half serious, before stalking away in disappointment.

Though it was easier for her to stay hidden in the night, the cover of darkness also made it easier for others to conceal themselves. As the sun set over the Glade, the woods began to feel too exposed – too many nooks and crannies to slip into undetected. She left the relative safety of the trees in favor of sleeping with her back to the wall; at least then no one could catch her unawares from behind. Still, sleep did not come easy.

Eventually, a much needed slumber came over her and her eyes drifted shut, only to be awakened in the cruelest possible way. At the small window under which she slept, a terrifying creature howled and clawed. The sound was a mixture of clanging metal and wailing moans, both painful and sinister. She screamed, louder even than the griever that longed slice into her flesh, and tore off in the direction of the dimming campfire across the Glade. Even the most wretched of her human companions, she reasoned, could not be worse than the mechanical monster she left behind.

Minho had seen her lay down next to the wall, knew what hunted them just on the other side of the massive stone barrier. He knew, but he made no move to try and warn her. Perhaps it was cruel, but so was the world she now lived in; her actions that morning had intrigued him, and he was hoping she would surprise him once again. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted when they felt their life was in danger. He was disappointed when he heard her piercing cry, saw her take off from one side of the great expanse to the other – but god, was she fast. Maybe she could be useful.

He sighed, pushing himself up and out of his not uncomfortable makeshift tent. When he found her, she was curled up in a ball, still whimpering softly, eyes squeezed so tightly shut that she must have been seeing stars behind them. Minho knelt down beside her and tried to suppress the upwelling of sympathy he started to feel for the frightened girl. Putting on a well-practiced mask of stoicism, he cleared his throat, alerting her to his presence. She flinched, but didn't look at him – perhaps wondering if she'd stumbled into a worse fate than she left behind.

"They can't get in at night," he explained, keeping his voice monotonous and informative, devoid of emotion or judgment.

She stilled at the sound of his voice, but avoided his gaze. "What are they?" she asked, voice still shaking though her body had ceased.

"Don't know," he replied honestly. "We call 'em grievers. Been here at least as long as we have."

"Why are they here?"

Minho sighed; that was a loaded question if he'd ever heard one. "Why are any of us here? Who knows? Who cares? It won't get us out of here any faster."

"I hate this place," she whined, hugging her knees tighter to her chest.

Minho was tiring of her petulance and naivety. "Oh get over it," he spat, more harshly than he had intended. There had been no one there to hold his hand when he'd first arrived in the Glade. Alby was damn near comatose when he'd come up in the box. Then Newt was almost worse, with his relentless optimism and unending supply of grating empathy. "This is your life now. So buck up, or you might as well go ahead and make yourself a tasty meal to that griever over there."

With those inciting words, the girl's terror was overtaken by her anger. She lithely flipped over onto her back and sprung into a crouch before Minho could even stand up. She had every intention of flinging back a seething retort, but when she finally gazed upon his face, her mind went completely blank and she nearly toppled over; Minho grabbed her arm to steady her – out of instinct, he told himself.

"Minho." A name she'd never heard before fell from her lips, as effortlessly as if she'd said it a thousand times before. The boy in front of her was as familiar to her as her own name, she knew; she knew, but still could not remember. Though her mind battled to keep her memories trapped firmly behind the dam that held back the entirety of her previous life, it could not stop the way her body responded to his touch.

Her pulse fluttered and a desperate longing pulled deeply at her core, pulling like a pit in her gut. She wondered what would be flooding her mind at that moment, should the dam break. Did she know this boy before her memories were taken from her? Did his soul, too, resonate with familiarity?

Minho was confused. The girl's eyes had flashed first with anger, then recognition. Then her lips formed his name – urgent, almost reverent. Did he know her? He didn't think so, but his memories had been gone a lot longer than hers, and he had never wanted to try to recover them. Now he almost wished he had.

Minho mentally shook himself. It didn't matter if they'd known each other before the Glade. As far as he was concerned, there was no before; only the present and, if they were lucky, the after. It had taken far too long for Minho to learn that it was easier to simply not get attached to anyone in this place. This girl would be no different. She would only be valuable if he could use her to escape the goddamn prison.

"Remember what I said, girl," Minho continued, releasing his hold and clearing his throat before standing up. "If you're ready to stop being a victim and start taking control of your own damn future, meet me by that wall at dawn." He pointed toward the direction from which she'd run – now the place she'd associate with her greatest fear, but she would soon learn there were worse things than those that went bump in the night.

"Emily. My name is Emily," she corrected. Remembering Minho's name must have shaken something loose in her brain – as if the two words were a set, a pair, always together, and you couldn't remember one without also thinking of the other. Minho gave one tight nod of acknowledgement before trudging off back toward his haphazard shelter.

The disappointment she felt from Minho's lack of reciprocation was easily overwhelmed by the relief and contentment that flooded over her at finally being able to articulate her most basic identity. Emily. Tomorrow, Emily decided, she would begin her new life.


	2. Chapter 2

It rained, the ground was uncomfortable, and most of her dreams had turned to nightmares, but Emily woke up almost excited. When the first rays of the sun began lightening the sky, she leapt up and bounced over toward the perimeter of the Glade. Minho must have gotten up even before the sun, because he was already waiting by the wall when she bounded over to him.

Minho sighed internally at the anticipation that was written all over the girl – Emily's – face. After what had happened the night before, how could she possibly believe anything he had to show her would be a good thing? "Follow me," he commanded, standing directly in front of the wall and offering no explanation as to why.

Emily frowned. "Where?" she asked, looking around. He simply stood there, as unmoving as the wall, and she grew impatient. "Minho, where are we going?"

His ears perked up at the sound of his name coming from her full lips – it was an odd sensation, like when you learn a new word and suddenly you hear it everywhere. His only response was to raise an eyebrow and wait. She must have been too preoccupied with her new situation to notice yesterday, but the gates would open soon.

Emily gasped as the massive stones began to groan and grind, revealing a narrow pathway through the Maze. "What the hell!" she screeched, sounding not unlike the very grievers she was afraid of. Minho walked calmly into the now fully opened passage. He didn't turn around to see if she followed – if she didn't, she shouldn't be doing the job he was about to ask of her anyway.

Minho smiled as he heard her soft footsteps padding along behind him. She was following so closely that when he stopped – only halfway down the first long corridor – she plowed right into him. Emily was so small that Minho didn't even move, but she bounced right off like a tennis ball against a brick wall and fell flat on her behind.

"Boys and their height and their muscles…" she muttered, embarrassed, as she dusted herself off. Minho offered her a hand, but it was his amused smirk that caused her to smack it away and pick her own self up. She wanted to ask him if he was out of his mind for voluntarily moseying into what appeared to be an un-navigable cage with lethal death monsters, but he didn't look afraid and he had already warned her the night before about the uselessness of fear.

Minho waited until she had stopped grumbling and then began to pitch his theory. "The gates open every morning at sunrise, and close every night at dusk. The Glade is in the center, but everything surrounding it is one big Maze. The grievers don't come out during the day, which I take to mean that we're supposed to explore every inch of this place. I think there's gotta be a way out in here somewhere."

"Where do they go?" she asked, puzzled.

"What do you mean?" Minho countered, assuming she'd missed the point.

"The grievers. I mean, they're here at night, but gone during the day. They've got to go somewhere," she reasoned.

"Who cares? They don't bother us, we don't bother them." A discovery that was made after a few unfortunate accidents in the Maze after hours.

Emily folded her arms, jutted her hip out to the side, and gave him an _Are you seriously not getting the implications of my question?_ look. When he still didn't respond, she said, "The grievers must get out of the Maze during the day. Maybe that's how we get out too."

Minho frowned – he hadn't really thought about where the grievers went, because he'd had no desire whatsoever to come upon them. "And how do you suggest we find out where that is?" he challenged, not enjoying being antagonized. "Do _you_ want to spend a night out here and try following one around?"

His heart skipped a beat as she contemplated his challenge; he'd seen the aftermath of a night spent with the grievers – the unidentifiable gooey bits spread over an impossibly far-reaching area, and god, the blood; he'd had no idea a human body could contain that much liquid. Minho shuddered; it was not something he wanted to come upon again. Especially with her – wait, where did that come from? He shook off the thought – if she wanted to go griever chasing, he wouldn't stop her. He steeled himself for her enthusiasm for the suicidal mission, but couldn't help his relief when she shook her head and wrinkled her nose.

"No thank you. Seeing one through the window was bad enough. While I still think I'm right," she pointed out clearly, "I think we can probably find it during the daytime."

Minho's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Then let's get going," he suggested, taking off down the long corridor. He enjoyed the look of shock and momentary confusion on her face as he spun on his heels and sprinted away. His amusement was quickly diminished when she easily matched his stride, smirking at her own ability to rise to his challenge.

Though Minho had done this many times before, it still took all his effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Several times, he found himself admiring her form – the way she barely made a sound as she ran, her feet seeming to glide over top of the earth in contrast to the way his pounded heavily into it, and the way her long wavy hair seemed to dance and sway in time behind her. Minho huffed and puffed in steady rhythms with his footfalls, trying to concentrate on which turns he was making and how far the sun had risen in the sky.

When he led them down the third dead end, though, Minho had to admit that he might have been the tiniest bit distracted. Emily smiled at him as he slowed, crossing her arms across her chest and amplifying her… distractions. Minho stared intently at the wall in front of him that had cut off their path forward. He frowned at it – both sure that it had not been there the day before, and unsure that he could be sure of anything he was supposed to be concentrating on.

"Maybe I should lead for a while," Emily suggested, spinning on her heel and breaking into a light jog. "I mean, my chest is far inferior to this ass!" she called over her shoulder, not needing to look back to know the Minho was, in fact, studying her admittedly glorious behind.

Hating that Emily had assumed he'd been checking her out – and hating even more that she was right – gave Minho a much needed burst of energy. He surged ahead of her, refusing to even glance in her direction, though he did hear her muffled laughter as she trotted along behind him. He tried not to get frustrated at how easily Emily kept pace with him, barely even breaking a sweat, but she had so much less mass to move.

Emily was fast, but her endurance was sorely lacking. Minho, now with his full concentration easily finding his path through the Maze, tried to hide his smile as, after only about a mile of their quick and steady pace, she began clutching at her side and nearly tripping over her feet. "Min. Ho. Can. We. Stop. Please," she managed to get out between desperate gulps of air. Minho slowed his stride to an easy walk. Emily leaned up against the wall, knees aching and lungs burning, until she had finally caught her breath. "How much further?" she asked, hopeful.

"Until what?" he teased, finally daring to look at her again now that he was not the one in the vulnerable state. Obviously, he had not found a way out, and so she didn't even know what would await them at the "end" of the Maze.

She wanted to walk over there and punch him in his smug, grinning face, but she was afraid her knees would buckle, and she refused to end up flat on her ass in front of him for the second time that morning. "Until we can turn around, shuckface," she snapped, her oxygen-deprived brain unable to conjure up a real word to insult him with.

Minho's brow furrowed first in confusion, then lifted high in surprise and amusement. He let out a deep, genuine laugh – one that shook his entire body and left him just as out of breath as Emily. She scowled and took off back in the general direction of the Glade. It wasn't so much that he had laughed at her – she probably would have done the same thing if Minho had been the one wheezing and mumbling incoherently – though that did sting. But the sound of his laughter triggered something in her – an unknown longing, a forgotten need. It both startled and thrilled her, but mostly it scared her. She didn't even know this boy, not really; Minho kept to himself, and probably for good reason. What would it mean for her to actually care about someone in this horrible place?

Minho was taken off guard by her sudden disappearance. He was concerned that his outburst had offended her – honestly, he had been surprised at his own reaction. It wasn't _that_ funny, but something about being around this girl put him at ease; he'd have to be careful about that. But in the split second before she took off, an array of emotions played across her face, and though he was bad at deciphering them, he was fairly certain disapproval wasn't one of them.

He bounded after her, afraid that she would get lost – having only been there one freakin' day! – and the Maze would take her. No, if she got lost it would be her own damn fault for taking off. Still, he rushed down four separate corridors, and though he was pushing his heavy, well-conditioned legs as fast as they would go, he never even caught sight of her. Finally, having taken half the time it took to go into the Maze, Minho turned the last corner just in time to see Emily disappearing back through the gates and into the safety of the Glade. Shuck, she was fast. Minho smiled at the new word she had managed to add into his diverse and colorful vocabulary of profanity.

Minho had expected Emily to be on the other side of the Glade by the time he finally made his way out of the gates. Instead, he saw her several yards to the left, cornered against the Maze wall by Whit and his cronies. They didn't get too close to her, but it wouldn't be long before they realized she had no weapons and could be easily overpowered.

Normally he wouldn't have given it a second thought – it was every man for himself in the Glade, which is why Minho made every effort to avoid interaction of any kind, both bad and good; enemies made you weak, but friends made you even weaker. And more often than not, it was impossible to tell the difference between the two until it was too late.

To Minho, caring about someone was not a risk worth taking – it could only end in heartbreak or betrayal. And yet, seeing Emily surrounded by a group of boys barely more civilized than a pack of wolves, his first instinct was to put himself between her and them. In fact, he had already taken a few steps when a hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Minho spun around, ready to defend himself, when his gaze fell on a wide-eyed Newt.

"Let go of me," Minho growled, trying to shake out of the other boy's grasp. He had to hand it to Newt – although he couldn't have looked more terrified if he'd been chained to a griever, Newt's grip never wavered.  
"She got herself into this, Minho. She's got to work it out on her own," he reasoned. Minho snorted in protest, but didn't try to move any farther forward. "Not that you _care_ ," Newt drawled sarcastically in his odd accent, "but if she doesn't do this, she'll always be looking over her shoulder. And you more than anyone should understand that," he finished, finally releasing his hold on the much larger, stronger boy.

Minho was focusing all his energy on trying to decipher the confrontation that was just out of earshot and on keeping his feet rooted to their spot. He watched as Emily pulled away from the wall – going on the offensive – and broke into a brilliant grin. Minho could not help his own smirk as he watched Whit's face glaze over and his eyes became unfocused, as if hypnotized by her beauty. Minho understood that feeling well, but his amusement quickly turned sour when he realized that she was interacting with Whit in a way that could only be described as flirting.

He watched as she twirled her already curly hair around her delicate fingers, tilting her head to the side and exposing her slender alabaster neck and pronounced collarbone. Minho's fists clenched and unclenched at his side, teeth grinding together as she laughed airily at whatever inane thing Whit believed he was charming her with. At one point, Emily reached out and playfully swatted his shoulder, coyly retreating back and blinking up innocently at him through her long eyelashes.

Whit was completely smitten, and Minho was just about to storm as far away from the scene as he could get when Whit leaned in suddenly. She turned her face just in time to avoid being kissed full on the mouth, his lips landing on the crest of her cheekbone. For a split second, Emily's emerald eyes went wide with sheer terror; if he had blinked, Minho would have missed it completely, because in the next moment she was smoothly disengaging herself from his grasp and had Whit smirking like he'd intended a chaste kiss on the cheek the entire time.

Even as the group began breaking apart, Minho could not tear his eyes from her – the way her hips swayed when she walked, the way she tucked her hair behind her ears when it fell in her face, even the way she bit her rosy lip and looked at the sky when she was thinking deeply about something. And because he was studying her so intently, Minho did not miss the subtle tremor that was causing her hands to shake, though she was no longer in any danger.

"She is a good looking lass, eh?" Newt commented, causing Minho – who'd forgotten the other boy's presence altogether – to jump in surprise.

Minho let out an audible _hmph_ and crossed his arms over his chest. He berated himself for stressing out over a situation that was out of his control and didn't even have anything to do with him! Emily was making her way over to them, but Minho stormed off in another direction, and it took all his willpower not to turn around for one last look at her innocent face. No. Too many times Minho had faced death – or worse, been the cause of another's demise. He could be objective. He could be cold. Unattached. He could, and he would be stronger that way. Minho mentally repeated his very valid reasons for solitude over and over until he was safely behind the veil of his makeshift shelter. Spending the night away from her intoxicating personality would do him some good.

Emily frowned at Minho's retreating form, but she had to admit she didn't mind the view.

"He is a good looking lad, eh?" Newt commented as he witnessed her perform the same shameless ogling that Minho had just moments earlier.

"You should see him when he runs," she sighed, willingly admitting her attraction to the stubborn, hot-tempered boy. Much like Minho had been mesmerized by the way she flew across the ground, she was equally entranced by his gait. He was like a freight train – steady, unwavering, and able to plow through anything in its path. Powerful. She could sense it from Whit too, but his was of a different sort. Whit's power came from a dark place, one that gained strength by taking it from the people around him. Minho's was like the sun – warm and constant, but sometimes hidden, and illuminating whatever it touched. Emily certainly felt ablaze whenever he was around.

"I wouldn't hold my breath for that one, if I were you, love," Newt replied through a grin, shaking his head. Though perhaps a pretty girl would have better luck getting through Minho's thick skull than a scrawny diplomat.

"Why is he like that? What happened to him?" Emily asked, finally turning to Newt only when Minho had disappeared behind the fabric of his little tent.

Newt winced, remembering all the Minho had been through, and sure that there was much more that Newt had not borne witness to. Emily was still looking at him expectantly. Where did he begin? Newt puffed out his cheeks and blew out a loud huff of air. "I think it's time you met Alby."


	3. Chapter 3

Newt led her through the woods to a small, secluded area of the Glade. A boy with dark skin and blank eyes sat on the ground, so dirty that he nearly blended in with the earth around him. Behind him, carved crudely and passionately into the stone wall of the Maze, were a dozen or so names. Occasionally, the boy – who must have been Alby – would absently run his hand over the indentations; a gesture that must have been so familiar that the edges surrounding the defaced stone were beginning to turn smooth.

"Alby, this is Emily," Newt began, though there was no acknowledgement of their presence by the boy at their feet. "She's the newest Glader," he explained, though Alby hadn't asked. "The box came up again, obviously," Newt continued, as if having these one-way conversations was a common occurrence. "Really think we should start planting. Or at least rationing the supplies. Never know when the next box is gonna come, you know? Took about a month this last time, I'd guess," he rambled, never bothering to wait for a response from Alby. Why wait for something that would never come?

Newt continued his incessant babbling, while Emily sat quietly on the ground in front of Alby. From further away, she would have estimated that he was about the same age as Minho, maybe a few years older. But now that she was eye-level with him – could see the white scars that marred his otherwise youthful skin, the wrinkles that gathered between his eyebrows in his permanent frown, the slump of his shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of a man that had lived a hundred lifetimes. Yes, his body was still young, but Alby's soul was much older. And broken.

"Can you give us a minute?" Emily asked suddenly, causing Newt to break his endless stream of consciousness and gaze at the pair before him.

He cocked his head to the side, curious as to what the girl possibly thought she could do to help the situation. Then Newt shrugged, sure that she couldn't make things any worse. "Knock yourself out. Think you can find your own way back?" Emily nodded, though she wasn't really sure she could remember. Didn't matter – there was nowhere to go; she'd eventually find her way back to someplace familiar.

Once Newt was out of sight, Emily settled into a more comfortable position in front of Alby, crossing her legs and placing her elbows on her knees, supporting her chin in her palms and simply staring at the boy. He didn't say anything, didn't even look at her. She scooted forward a little and placed her hand over top of his, giving it a little squeeze.

Emily was never much one for words, and Newt didn't seem to be getting anywhere with his. She didn't know what this boy had been through – and judging by his state, both mental and physical, it was unimaginable – but this was no way for him to live. The lake was not too far from there, and she thought perhaps the water would cleanse his soul as much as his body.

After a few unsuccessful attempts at pulling Alby to his feet, she deemed him was dead weight so eventually walked off on her own. She had no buckets or washcloths, only the clothes off her own back. She unzipped the sweater she was wearing and dipped it into the cool, clear water, allowing it to absorb as much of the liquid as possible.

The thick fabric took in a surprising amount of the fresh water, and when she returned to Alby – in the exact spot she'd left him, and the same spot she expected he'd been occupying for months – began wiping away the layers of grime and filth from his features. She started at his extremities, not wanting to startle or alarm the clearly traumatized boy. She took one of his hands – the one she'd been holding a few moments before – and worked her way across his palm and around each of his fingers, even picking at some of the dirt gathered beneath his fingernails.

She only made it half way up his forearm before the sweatshirt became completely soiled and she had to make her way back to the lake. She had to make about nine trips before his arms and legs were finally wiped clean. When she came back the tenth time, she hesitated. Emily hadn't noticed, but at some point Alby's gaze had become fixed on her, following the rhythmic and gentle movements of the cloth in her hands, so when she came back to finally begin working on his face, she was startled to find his dark eyes trained on her.

Emily raised an eyebrow as she raised the haggard garment, a question in her eyes. Though he made no acknowledgement, only looked at her curiously, she took it as a sign of consent. As carefully as she could, Emily began rubbing small circles into grime that had been caked on his face. She started around his forehead, then around his cheek and jaw, then working around his chin and mouth. Finally, using the thinnest and softest part of the sleeve of her sweater, she began around his eyes, which closed automatically and, if she'd known better, she might have almost thought he looked content.

Emily – having finished the kind gesture, and satisfied that Alby looked half-human again – finally got to her feet. Her hands traced along the names on the wall, and she sought to remember each of them; they were a part of this place as much as she was, and deserved to be remembered. "This is a place of honor, of mourning. They deserve this, Alby – a place to finally rest. And you've given it to them," she said kneeling down so that she was at eye level with him again. "They will always be here," she continued, sorrow and sympathy crossing her features, "but you don't have to be." She took his face in one of her hand, eyes begging him to heed her words, before standing back up and walking off.

Emily didn't, in fact, remember how to get back to the center of the Glade, but her feet were thoughtlessly carrying her down the same path she'd traversed a dozen times that day – to the lake. In all honesty, she now looked about as grimy as Alby had when she'd first come upon him. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was around, Emily slipped out of her clothes and dove under the surface of the lake.

The water was cool and crisp, refreshing her spirit and awakening her mind. Her overworked legs were happy for the reprieve as she pumped her arms back and forth, swimming lap after lap across the lake. She scrubbed at her scalp, and spun and twisted through the water like a fish until all the dirt had lifted from her body. When she finally paddled her way to the shore, she realized that several bodies were crouched around her vacant clothes, waiting for her to return to them.

"Whit," Emily acknowledged, pausing just far enough from the edge that she remained unexposed to Whit's amused leer. He was pinching the thin garments between his fingers, picking through the jeans and tank top before hooking his finger through the silky threads of her undergarments.

"Now, honey," he tsk-ed in his Southern drawl, "you know you shouldn't be out here alone. Who knows what threats are lurking behind every corner in these here woods."

As far as Emily could tell, Whit and his gang were the only threats to her safety at the moment. "You know what, you're right," she admitted, stroking his ego and causing him to puff up his chest in pride.

"You really ought to have a bathing buddy," he suggested, practically purring with lust as he stared at her, hands tightening around the underwear he was holding.

Emily nearly gagged at the thought of Whit's naked body occupying the same space as hers. "I'm sure Minho would be happy to provide his services," she mused, though never intending to speak the words out loud. She realized she must have vocalized the thought, though, when Whit's face morphed into one of unbridled anger.

"That dim-witted brute wouldn't know what to do with a woman even if he was already inside her," he raged.

Emily wrinkled her nose at the indelicate insult, but didn't remark. It suddenly occurred to her that she was naked, and she had pissed off the one holding her clothes. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll get Newt or someone to watch after me next time," she suggested, thinking he was a neutral option.

Whit sneered, still stung by her previous rejection. "Well I don't believe you've learned your lesson," he chided, gathering up the rest of her clothes and standing up.

"What the hell are you doing?" Emily squeaked, eyes darting around to look for assistance. There was no one, and though she may have left Alby in a slightly better state than she'd found him, he was still in no condition to defend her honor.

"Just lookin' out for you, darling," Whit replied, whistling for the rest of his crew to fall into formation behind him. "I reckon you won't be forgetting this anytime soon," he said, leaning over and sneering. Emily reached out in an attempt to snatch back her clothes – and maybe an ounce of her dignity – but succeeded in neither. She screeched in frustration, which only elicited a bout of snickering from the retreated bullies.

Well, shit. Now what was she going to do? The sun was beginning to go down. No one knew she was out there. She could either walk through the Glade stark naked to find some clothes, or risk freezing to death in the middle of the night. Considering her reluctance to allow Whit a view of her bare body had gotten her into this predicament in the first place, she decided it would be counterproductive to parade around and give everyone a front row view.

As the darkness grew, Emily's resolve began to falter. Goosebumps rose on her skin and she began to shiver uncontrollably. A few times she braved exiting the water, but the cool night air accosting her wet skin took her breath away, and every time she retreated back into the relative warmth of the lake.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore; she didn't care if the whole damn Glade saw her bare ass if she would be rewarded with a blanket. Emily crawled onto the grassy shore, anticipating the paralyzing cold, but still entirely unprepared for it. She curled her knees up to her chest, tremors wracking her body and teeth chattering so violently that she feared she might bite off her tongue, desperately trying to contain some her body heat.

Though it didn't feel like she had been getting warmer, stretching her legs and arms away from her body felt like another chilly blow to her chest. She coughed and wheezed, pushing herself up on hands and knees. She stayed like this until her breathing normalized; her mind was fuzzy and her body was numb, but she was still shaking – a sign that her body was at least still trying to keep itself alive.

Emily stumbled through the woods, not really knowing where she was going until she saw the empty expanse of the Glade beyond the treeline. She shouldn't have cared at this point who saw her like this, but still she skirted around the edge of the woods until she spotted a familiar makeshift tent a short distance away.

"M-m-min-h-h-o –" she chattered, trying to get his attention from the safety of the trees. Her voice was hoarse and weak, and she wasn't even sure it carried far enough to reach his tent, much less rouse him from slumber. She dropped to her knees, her legs no longer able to support her weight. She picked up a small pebble and lobbed it in Minho's general direction, though her waning strength and spasming limbs caused it to ricochet harmlessly off the side of the fabric.

Emily leaned against the tree trunk, closing her eyes; she was no longer shivering, and so very tired. She pondered over her stupidity – she had patronized Whit for his pride and arrogance,, and here she was risking her life for the same sins. She was going to die here, all because she wouldn't let a teenage boy sneak a peek at her not-all-that-impressive breasts. She would've laughed if her aching lungs would allow it.

"Emily?" she heard a deep voice mumble, as if from a distance. She heard the snap of a twig, felt a warm hand – which felt blazing hot to her hypothermic skin – cup her cheek, then move down to feel the pulse thumping weakly at her neck. "Shuck," Minho muttered, scooping her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than the pile of leaves he'd found her in.

The heat from Minho's body washed over her, awakening it with new life. She began shaking so hard that Minho feared he'd lose his grip on her. When they got back to his tent, he laid her on the ground; she whimpered from the loss of contact, but he took the moment to pull his t-shirt off over his head with one hand, slipping it over hers and guiding her arms through the fabric that still held a fraction of his warmth.

Minho leaned over her now-decent form. "Hey, hey, look at me," he commanded, an uncharacteristic worry lacing his words. "What happened? Are you alright?" he asked, shaking her shoulder when she didn't respond. "Emily!" he whisper-shouted, pulling her back into his arms as he sat down; it was like holding a block of ice, and her pale skin was tinted with a sickly, bluish hue.

Emily pried her eyes open, and despite the nearly deadly experience, found herself smiling. "It wouldn't be terrible… if this… were the last thing… I ever saw," she finally managed to get out between bouts of involuntary tremors, placing her chilled hand on his bare, well-defined chest. Minho hissed at the temperature difference.

"This is not funny," he chastised, frowning down at her nonchalance.

"No," she agreed, "but I may be slightly delirious, and you're very warm," she reasoned, snuggling closer to her savior.

Minho would never admit it, but he rather liked having this annoying, danger-prone woman in his arms. Though there was no truly safe place in the Glade, he supposed that in his arms was probably the safest place for her. "Why are you wet?" he asked, suddenly realizing that her long hair was dripping down in streams on both of them. Emily, exhausted and finally beginning to thaw, simply sighed in pleasure. "You will tell me in the morning," Minho whispered, not wanting to wake her.

He still firmly believed that he should not and would not give a crap about anyone in this godforsaken place. If it had been anyone else, he probably would've let them freeze to death out there (that's what he told himself, anyway). He usually slept like a rock, but her quiet plea had been enough to snap him to attention – as if his brain had been hardwired to always listen out for her soft timbre. When he stumbled out of bed to find her huddled at the base of a tree, half-dead, he nearly panicked – no terror in the Maze had every scared him as greatly as the thought of not feeling the blood pumping through her veins when he reached beneath her chin. It had been weak and slow, but it was there and she was alive. And now she was curled up in his arms – still a few degrees cooler than him, but rapidly heating up.

Minho placed her on the ground and settled in behind her, not wanting to break contact for fear that she would freeze again. He tucked her against his bare chest, wrapping his massive arms around her petite frame and spreading out his warm hand over her heart, enjoying the strong, steady rhythm that pulsed beneath his palm. Up until that point, his only thought had been her safety. Now that she was safe, he found his mind wandering to other aspects. The beautiful girl against his body was naked except for his shirt, and despite his best efforts, his eye studied her every curve, clearly visible beneath the thin fabric.

Though his hand instinctually reached out to trace those delicate curves, Minho kept it firmly planted at his side. She was asleep, vulnerable, and obviously entrusted him with her life. Minho ground his teeth together, his mind warring with his body; but he had long disciplined himself to have mastery over his body – he pushed himself in the Maze beyond the point of exhaustion, gone days without food or water – and this would be no different. He would not allow this small girl to break down the walls he'd so carefully constructed around his fragile spirit. She had caught him off guard tonight, but in the morning he would once again throw on the mask of stoicism and indifference. In the morning, she would have to learn to survive this place on her own.

Minho sighed and nestled his cheek against Emily's now dry, wavy locks – almost wishing that morning would never come.


	4. Chapter 4

_She was sitting perched on the edge of a hospital bed, her knees slowly spreading apart as she pulled Minho between them by hooking her index finger through one of his belt loops and giving a gentle tug. He happily obliged, relishing the way her slim ivory legs coiled around his midsection, her thighs squeezing ever so slightly around the peak of his hip bones._

 _He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers, allowing himself to be pulled ever closer, until her hips were flush against the narrowest part of his waist. He twisted her golden waves around his knuckles, fascinated by how they seemed to glow warmly even under the harsh fluorescent lights, while she studied him carefully._

 _"Are you ready?" she asked, already knowing the answer._

 _"I will never be ready," he confessed, breathing in her slightly floral scent. She reached one of her delicate fingers under his chin and lifted his face, waiting for his dark eyes to find hers. She smiled in resigned sadness, the slight upturn at the corners of her mouth enough to dimple her rosy cheeks, but not enough to crinkle around her eyes. "How could I ever be ready to forget you?" he sighed._

 _Yes, this was what they'd signed up for. Yes, this was the beginning of something they'd been preparing their whole lives to do. Yes, this could be the most important thing they ever did. But as he stared into her eyes, which held as many depths and facets as the green gemstones they resembled, he couldn't fathom waking up every morning without her by his side, without even knowing a piece of himself was missing._

 _His mind had already traveled to the Glade – lonely, ruthless, foreign – but her soft lips on his brought him back to the present. "Stay with me, Minho," she begged in a whisper as she trailed kisses along his jaw from his chin to his ear. He didn't know if she'd intentionally meant it as a physical proposition, but she didn't protest when, in one smooth motion, he lifted her up and spun her around, laying her back flat against the bed as he covered her body with his – careful to support his considerable mass on his forearms, which rested on either side of her._

 _Her legs were still wrapped around him, but somehow she managed to tug his shirt over his head, tossing it over the side of the bed as her fingers dug hungrily into his back, pulling his weight on top of her. Minho pulled back and stilled her passionate hands, pausing to trace his fingers down her nose, across her lips – along every outline from her hair to her toes, as if trying to inscribe in his flesh the memories that his mind would not keep. She shivered and tingled until she was practically vibrating with need and could stand it no longer. She pulled Minho's lips back to her own, rising to a vertical position until she was straddling his lap. His strong hands kneaded into the soft flesh of her thighs, his desire rivaling equaling her own._

 _That night would belong to them, and Minho swore that even if he didn't remember anything else, he would find a way to remember the way she fit so perfectly in his arms. If he couldn't, nothing else would be worth remembering anyway._

Minho startled awake, shaken by the dream – memory? – and still rapt in the phantom sensations his unconscious mind had conjured for him in sleep; for a split second, he swore the taste of her lingered on his tongue. Suddenly he was very aware of the arousal the stood firmly between himself and the half naked girl that was now lying on top of him.

"Shit…" he muttered, needing to extricate himself from her grasp without waking her up. He needed a cold swim, though he was hesitant to leave Emily alone. He lifted the thin arm that was draped across his chest, sliding swiftly and silently to the side, before gently repositioning her elbow along her side and tucking the back of her hand under her cheek. She didn't awaken, but the corners of her lips turned down in a frown, as if she could sense his absence.

He stared a little too long, his still groggy and unfettered thoughts desperate to recreate the fantasy – imagining how her body would mold to his, how her bright eyes would darken as her desire grew, how his name would sound being cried out in a moment of passion. Shitshitshit.

Minho slipped on his running shoes and practically sprinted across the Glade, desperate to regain control over himself, both mentally and physically. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and he jogged a warm-up lap around the perimeter of the Glade, making it back to the gate as there was just enough room for him to slip through the entrance that was still grinding its way open. He had brought no food or water with him, not even another shirt to shield his upper body from the rays that would beat down on him all day – but his only thoughts were of escape, of release.

Minho wasn't naïve – he knew what the other boys did, alone and in the dark. He knew the same longing, desire, need. He knew, and yet he did not partake. It was a fantasy; it wasn't real, and would never offer anything but temporary relief from the foundation of isolation and loneliness on which this godforsaken prison was built. The slight burn that meant his powerful muscles were being torn apart and then made stronger; the musty smell of stone and dirt that he kicked up in his wake; the Maze – that was real, that was life.

The part of him that wanted instant gratification – the currently extremely frustrated part – screamed that the girl that he had woken up with in his arms was very much real. Ironically, it was the dream, which may have held a kernel of truth from his buried memories, that tore him away from her. Those versions of them – the sappy, doe-eyed, star-crossed lovers – would never survive in a place like this. They couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to hold onto the smiling dream angel in his imagination, she would always turn to ice and perish within his grasp.

Minho ran harder.

The first thing Emily noticed was the cold. The sun was not even high enough to make an appearance over the massive Maze walls, and she was painfully aware of the solitude in which she awoke. For several agonizing seconds, she was paralyzed – not from the temperature, but the fear; she had almost died last night, and it wasn't because of the Creators, or the grievers, or any sort of failed tests or experiments. Emily almost died at the hands of her fellow man, another subject that was her cellmate in this prison that could never truly be called _home_.

She let the terror wash over and through her in those few moments, taking three slow, deep breaths, mostly to remind herself that she still could. When she opened her eyes, the world around her was the same place it was when she'd fallen asleep, only now she was alone. She could remain in the relative safety of the tent, but she refused to be a coward. She could wait for Minho to return, but then she would always be waiting. Or, she could man the hell up and face the other Gladers with as much dignity as she could muster with bare feet and bedhead.

Upon exiting the fabric curtain, Emily promptly tripped over the knapsack Minho had left haphazardly strewn at the entrance. "Oof," she huffed, stumbling forward and catching herself before it turned into a full-blown nose dive, though if anyone had been behind her, they would have caught a very unflattering view of her rear end.

She turned to give a withering glare to the object of her embarrassment, kicking it once for good measure. If Minho had already gone into the Maze, why was his stupid backpack still here anyway? And what did she care? If he'd bothered to wake her up before he left, maybe even take her with him again, she could have reminded him.

Using the irrational anger that was momentarily drowning out her shame and self-pity, Emily trudged over to Whit's little camp, where all five boys were passed out around the last remnants of a dying fire; their leader had rumpled up her clothes and was using them as a pillow. Snagging a small knife from one of his weaker compatriots, she held it inches from Whit's throat as she yanked the ball of fabric from under his head.

Whit gave one unattractive snort that morphed into a sort of growl as he readied himself to pounce on whoever dared to disturb his slumber. But as the cool metal brushed against his neck, he stilled, taking in the furious form of the small woman kneeling over him. She may have had the physical advantage, but his eyes roamed her half-clothed figure hungrily. He laid there, not even bothering to struggle as his gaze traveled up the knee she had pinned against his chest to the hem of the shirt that barely fell over her hips.

Emily leaned over, cutting off his view and pressing the blade further into his skin. "These are mine," she whispered with as much certainty as she could muster, though the light of amusement that sparkled behind his icy orbs was hardly that of a victim. Whit probably could have overtaken her, but he was rather enjoying the game. She slowly rose to her feet, careful not to give him access – either visual or tactile – to any unexposed parts of herself. "I think I'll keep the knife," she warned, standing to her full height and sliding her bare legs into the wrinkled denim.

Emily occupied her time as best she could, but there wasn't much to _do_ in the Glade. Newt tried to explain the intricacies of the little garden he'd started. She had little interest in the seedlings even before he began talking about bulbs and pH and spacing, and even tried her best to participate before Newt took away her trowel, muttering something about _finesse_ and _doing more harm than good_. After that, Emily was relegated to sorting seeds and passing tools – activities that couldn't be screwed up out of boredom or indelicacy.

Whit hadn't bothered her anymore that day, but it seemed like everywhere she went, she would catch him out of the corner of her eye – just watching, waiting. The thought of what he could be waiting for was putting her on edge; but the only way out of the Glade was into the Maze, so Emily used the plausible excuse that Minho would need the supplies he'd left behind for the run and sprinted through the stone opening with the sack of food and water.

Since her little adventure through the woods the day before, Emily had begun to have sincere doubts about her sense of direction. She had only been into the Maze once – and then she was simply following another's lead; but her feet seemed to know where they were taking her without her mind getting too involved, like watching a movie you'd seen a thousand times – you watch it, but also mouth the words along with it, anticipating all the lines and actions before they occur on screen.

Once Minho had settled into a steady rhythm, his mind cleared and body stabilized. Still, in his haste to retreat into the Maze, he'd forgotten a few essential – and now his stomach was rumbling and the heat was becoming unbearable. He turned around sooner than he normally would have, still unsure that he had himself entirely under control, though he figured he had the entire jog back to lock down the few wisps of emotion that were still bubbling to the surface. He figured wrong.

He was only about halfway back to the Glade when he ran smack into the one person he had left the Glade to escape from. Out of instinct, he grabbed the other person and slammed them against the wall, pinning them in place and eliminating any threat they may have posed – after all, Minho was the only person who had ever bothered to explore the Maze, and encountering anyone was a major red flag.

"I brought you your backpack," Emily mumbled against the wall, her cheek rubbing raw against the rough stone.

Minho, his rational mind taking control over his body again, leapt back far enough to hit the opposing wall. To his horror, he had been holding her nearly a foot in the air, and she landed on the ground with a dull thud, coughing and sputtering.

"What the hell! What are you doing out here?" he hissed, more angry at himself than at her, though she recoiled at his tone.

"You were already gone when I woke up," she accused, almost pouting, "and I thought you might need, oh, I don't know – food? Water?" Emily crossed her arms over her chest and jutted one hip out to the side, daring him to try and deny it.

At that moment, though, Minho was fighting an internal battle – and losing. He thought he had himself under control, but her once again unexpected closeness had him reeling and off-balance. And, god! She was still wearing his shirt; she should have been swimming in it, but Emily had gathered up the bottom and tied the excess into a knot at her back, exposing just enough of her taught midsection that Minho's mind could easily start to wander either higher or lower.

She held out the full bag of supplies and he snatched it from her, quickly and purposefully trudging back on his path toward the Glade. "You're welcome," she called, her shorter legs jogging behind to keep up with his pace.

"You shouldn't have come in here alone," Minho said gruffly, snagging a container of water from the pouch and downing it in one gulp.

"Apparently I shouldn't go anywhere alone," she snorted, making light of the situation she'd found herself in just hours earlier. Minho glanced back long enough to give her a warning glare, but didn't slow his stride. "Maybe if somebody had told me they were leaving this morning, I wouldn't have had to be in here alone," she teased; when her words gave him pause, she was half hoping Minho would apologize and offer to never leave her side again. Instead, she shrank back at the incredulous ire that seemed to turn his brown eyes black.

"Listen to me very carefully," Minho began, his steady, even tone much more intimidating than his yelling. "This place is dangerous. These people are dangerous. There is no escape, and I. Can't. Protect. You." He took a step toward Emily, who in turn took a step back. "I'm not that guy – the guy who dives into the street to push a little old lady out of oncoming traffic, the guy who runs into a burning building to save a bunch of kittens. In all likelihood, I'm the guy driving the car and holding the match."

Emily couldn't believe the things he was saying about himself, but Minho certainly did. Any rational person would have turned on their heels at the half-crazed gleam in his eyes, but just like her feet carried her mindlessly through the Maze, so her hand reached up of its own accord and brushed against his cheek. She could have sworn that she heard his breath hitch, saw a different kind of fire blaze behind his eyes, but in an instant it was gone.

"Don't," he warned, slapping her hand away with enough force to wrench her shoulder. "Just because occupy the same space does not mean that I owe you anything," he hissed before backing away from her. "Next time, you're on your own." And with that, Minho took off alone toward the Glade.

Emily stood there for a few minutes, dumbstruck. What the hell had just happened? Last night, Minho had done something to take care of her. This morning, Emily had done something to take care of him. Then it had all gone sideways and she ended up, once again, alone and afraid. Well screw that! Maybe Minho had the right idea after all – anger was a much more useful emotion than fear. She barreled through the rest of the Maze, even surpassing Minho just before he entered the Glade, past Newt and Whit and every other damn problem she didn't want to deal with. She needed to vent, and she knew of the perfect willing party.

"WHY?" she raged at Alby, who was stretched out along the ground in the exact spot she'd left him the day before. "Why is he like this? I mean, I know. People are mean. Nothing comes easy. Life is unfair. Blah blah blah." Emily paused in her pacing to take a calming breath, rubbing her palms against her temples in an attempt to quell the impending headache her frustration had induced. She recounted the events leading up to their heated exchange, listing them off just as she had done for herself before. Her breathing had nearly normalized until his harsh words echoed again in her memory and she threw her hands up in exasperation. "But honestly, what could possibly have happened to warrant _this_ level of disengagement and self-loathing?"

The main reason she had come there was to have a sounding board to bounce her grievances off of, one that wouldn't judge or reciprocate or try and fix anything; and so she was taken off guard when Alby's soft voice – hoarse from disuse – answered her rhetorical question.

"He killed them. He killed them all."


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm sorry, what?" she asked, all the anger suddenly replaced with confusion. Emily wasn't sure what she was more surprised by – what Alby had said, or the fact that he'd spoken at all.

"Minho. You asked why he is the way he is. Well… that's why."

Emily still had very little idea what he was talking about. "Killed who, Alby?" Her eyes wandered to the names meticulously scratched into the wall behind him, but Alby shook his head.

"No, not them. They came after."

"After who?" she practically screamed, her frustrations from Minho now being transferred to the poor traumatized boy who had decided to open up to her. She took a calming breath and tried to reign in her tone. "Alby, what happened?"

Alby was silent for a long while. Long enough that Emily began pacing again, wringing her hands and biting her tongue, figuring that Alby would speak when he was ready and not a moment before. Eventually she just sat on the ground in front of him, much like she had the day before. Alby – having been isolated for so long – took several more moments to become accustomed to her presence, to the fact that he was expected to participate in an interaction with another human being for the first time in a long while.

"I wasn't the first to come up in the box," he began slowly, almost fumbling for the right words. "Well… I was, but I wasn't alone. Minho was with me, along with a bunch of others. I don't even remember how many now."

"But Newt said –"

"Newt doesn't know," he said sternly, looking at her for the first time since he'd begun speaking. Clearly, this was not meant to be a two-way conversation, so Emily pressed her lips together and waited in silence. He took a shuddering breath and then continued. "You see, this whole place is an experiment. I don't think the people who put us here know what they're doing any more than we do. And like any experiment, they're looking for results by trial and error. They just happened to start out with an error."

Emily briefly wondered if that was why she was the first girl to appear in the Glade, after only boys had been brought up for so long – the creators were testing them, seeing how they would react to a change in circumstance. So far, not so well in her opinion.

"What happened?" Emily prodded with as much gentleness as she could muster, though inside she was at the height of anticipation, like sitting at the top of a roller coaster when you didn't know when it was going to drop.

"Exactly what you'd expect to happen when you drop a bunch of scared, confused, and angry kids into a cage with no food or shelter," he replied with a bitterness that turned his long-neutral expression into a grimace. "Panic. Chaos. Violence. People stripped down until all rational thinking has been replaced by primal need."

Now it was Emily's turn to shudder. She had thought the Glade rather uncivilized upon her own arrival, and couldn't fathom what it must have been like for them. Without thinking, she reached out and put a hand on Alby's shoulder. He flinched, but Emily didn't pull away. "Tell me," she coaxed – not a command, just a request; an offer to help carry the burdens of the past that had trapped him in these lonely woods for so long.

Once he began, the whole story poured out of him from the very depths of his soul. The Glade had seemed like paradise at first – green and warm and bustling with life. They entered the Glade with no memories, but in a way that bonded them together – a universal trauma that connected them to each other and that place. But eventually winter came; the weather turned, the orchards withered, and the group began to splinter. Soon every man was out for himself, with the weak gathering around the strong in mutual beneficence – one party providing enough eyes and hands to gather just the minimum amount of food to survive, the other posing enough of a threat that those within would cooperate and not turn on each other. Only a few remained independent parties, Minho and Alby being two of them. The system worked for a while; it was a delicate balance of power, but they were surviving the scarce winter. All it took was one bundle of dirty grapes to shatter their whole world.

"Matty. He… he was smart. We were all hoping that we'd be out of here before the food ran out – I mean, that would take months. And surely we wouldn't be any use if we starved to death. But Matty knew, the cynical bastard; he knew we weren't getting out of here and he started hiding away food – dug up the ground and buried some fruit so it would stay frozen and not go bad." Alby smiled, but it was bitter and pained. "If he'd just given up those damn grapes!" he barked, half laugh and half sob.

When he didn't continue, Emily shifted her position on the ground. She had been facing him, forcing him to make eye contact every now and then, but now he gazed off in the distance and she could feel him pulling away. Emily crawled over to the glassy-eyed boy and sidled up next to him, leaning into his shoulder. She'd expected him to pull away – he'd distanced himself from human contact for so long – but instead he leaned back.

Alby was shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks, though no sound escaped his lips. He was twice her size, and eventually Alby leaned so he leaned so deeply that he fell to the side, laying his head in her lap. Emily froze, wanting to comfort him but taken aback by the sudden intimacy. But this was what he needed – what they all needed – in order to get through whatever trial they had been put there for. Sympathy. Humanity. Love. Emily may not have known who she was, but Alby had given her an idea of who she would be without the others.

Emily took one of Alby's hands – the stains of dirt now indistinguishable from his dark skin – and let his tears soil her clothes. When his grief had finally been exhausted, Alby continued.

"That was the last straw. Like I said, Matty was smart. But he was also weak, and he knew the only way he'd survive was to ally himself with a pack. Tensions had already been high, but when they found out he'd stashed away food, been keeping it for himself… all hell broke loose." Alby took a deep breath and pushed himself back up to a seated position. "His leader took Matty to the center of the Glade to make an example out of him. Minho tried to talk some sense into him, but he was outnumbered."

"Alby, what happened?" Emily was still holding his hand, but didn't realize how hard she was squeezing until Alby wrenched it from her grasp. "Sorry…" she muttered, not really sorry. The corner of Alby's mouth turned up in genuine amusement.

"Matty was killed. Right there in front of everyone." Emily's eyes widened and her jaw snapped tightly shut. "Stabbed right through the heart with a hand-sharpened spear," he elaborated, tapping a finger to the spot on his chest right where his heart would be. "I suspect things would've gone back to normal – well, as normal as anything could be around here. But Minho… well, he's got a bit of a temper, and he just… lost it."

This time Emily laughed, both knowing and mirthless. "You don't have to tell me," she whined with a sigh.

At this, Alby grabbed her hand again and looked at her, suddenly very serious. "No, Emily, listen to me." The gravity in his tone was frightening. "I've never seen anything like it. Minho snapped. The second Matty's body hit the ground, Minho kicked and clawed and punched his way through everyone and everything in his path." Alby was visibly shaken. "And once the dam broke… it was a bloodbath, Emily. All the pent up confusion and anger and distrust – it was like no one even wanted to come out of it alive. And the more people that were killed, the more it seemed to fuel his wrath. Minho survived because of brute strength and toxic rage. I survived because I was a coward and ran. Everyone else… well, they weren't so lucky; they either died from their injuries, or succumbed to the elements."

Emily squeezed the hand he'd reached for. "You were fighting for your life the best way you knew how, and obviously it worked. No one would blame you for that."

Alby scoffed. "Maybe not. But I haven't been able to bring myself out of these woods since." He blew out a deep breath, but his voice was still heavy with guilt. "Eventually, too soon, the blood soaked into the earth, the clouds cleared, and the world was green again. For weeks, we simply ignored each other; lived in our own sad little spheres and pretended it never happened. And when Newt arrived in the box – alone and with supplies – it was like it never had."

"I'm so sorry, Alby. I can't imagine…"

"Don't be sorry," he cut off her sympathetic but unhelpful sympathies. "Be smart. Learn from our mistakes. I may be isolated from the other Gladers, but I still see what's going on." Emily scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion. "Think about it… I know you've seen it to. It's happening again, Emily."

"But we've got plenty of food and resources; no reason to try and kill each other!" she squeaked, unsure of who she was trying to convince. The idea of Whit and his cronies stringing up and shanking an unsuspecting boy in the middle of the Glade was all too believable. But she couldn't believe that Minho would be so heartless and indiscriminate with his rage.

Alby could see the conflict, the willing disbelief playing behind her eyes. She felt something for Minho – he knew by the way she talked about him, by how hot and bothered he made her. But he feared for her safety and sanity. "Just be careful. Watch, listen. Stay alive," he advised, ironic considering that sentiment had led to his current state of disengagement.

The conversation over, Emily got up, brushed off the dirt and leaf litter from her pants, and began to make her way out of the woods. Only when her stomach rumbled did she realize that the sun had begun to set and that she was actually starving, so she quickened her pace. She was at a steady jog by the time she reached the edge of the treeline, where her stomach dropped and she stumbled to a stop.

There in the center of the Glade, within sight but out of earshot, was Minho – the man who had saved her life, and taken so many others – with his hands wrapped around Whit's throat.


	6. Chapter 6

When Minho had trudged out of the Maze, he was frustrated in more ways than one. His muscles were coiled, tightly clenched from the pent up anger and sexual tension, the force of him flooding into the Glade like an avalanche. He saw Emily's retreating form disappear into the woods – which was good, since he had no idea what he would've done within close proximity to her again.

Minho felt terrible; the look on Emily's face when he'd told her off so harshly was etched in his thoughts; hurting her had been like a physical blow to his own chest. The delicate balance of his worldview hadn't been this shaken in a very long time, and it was better for everyone – well, mostly Minho – if it remained intact.

In true primal fashion, Minho expended his inner turmoil with an unnecessary display of outside masculinity. Grabbing an axe, he hacked away at tree after tree until there was enough firewood to last them for the next six months. Sweat dripped from his aching muscles, causing the tool to slip from his grasp and nearly decapitate an unsuspecting squirrel. The animal squawked at him before bounding over and up the nearest tree, chirping angrily.

Before Minho could retrieve the blade, Newt picked it up with a huff – the axe was heavier than it appeared, and Minho had been swinging it around like it weighed no more than a feather. Minho opened his mouth to protest when Newt interrupted with an explanation. "At this rate, you're going to chop the whole bloody Glade to pieces, mate, and I rather like having food and shelter." He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Minho to see reason.

"Fine," Minho growled, wiping his slick palms against his pants and glancing around, looking for something new to pulverize.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Newt suggested, and his tone was so hopeful that Minho actually cracked a smile. Newt had always been so desperate to gain allies, friends.

"You need to learn to talk less," Minho challenged, his smile turning into more of a sneer. When Newt didn't respond – actually taking his advice and waiting for Minho to gather his thoughts and decide whether he wanted to contribute to the conversation – Minho threw him a bone. "I… she… I don't know what she wants from me. I can't protect her." Minho had decided a long time ago that independence, being completely unreliant on anyone else, was the only way to survive in this place.

When he didn't continue, Newt figured he was now allowed to speak. "Did she ask you to?"

"No. But she's just always… _there_. And she's so small. Why would they put her here, with us? She already almost…" Minho cut himself off, not willing to divulge details that would make her appear weak and vulnerable. Newt would not take advantage of her, but his big mouth might inadvertently get her into trouble anyway.

"Look, Minho, I know you've got this whole solo, looking-out-for-number-one philosophy. But being independent doesn't mean you have to be alone. And caring about someone doesn't make you weak – it means you've got someone to be strong for. That poses a hell of a lot more of a threat than just looking out for yourself."

A part of him knew that what Newt was saying made sense, but Minho had held so long and so tightly to the belief that what he had done – the violence, the isolation – he only did because he had no other choice, that it was them or him, and he couldn't grasp the idea that there could be another way of coexisting. When Minho didn't respond, only stubbornly glared at the ground, Newt simply handed back the axe with a sigh and walked away.

Minho resumed his cathartic chopping, but it was no longer giving him the same relief – or, at the very least, distraction – as it had before Newt butted in. He tossed the tool to the side and it landed in the dirt with a heavy thud.

"Watch where you hurl that thing, Neanderthal; someone could lose a limb!" Minho ground his teeth together, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his temples in an attempt to quell the impending migraine that Whit's presence was generating. "Are you not even going to apologize?" Whit sneered, hoping to get a rise out him (and being fully unaware of what devastating consequences that would incur).

"I suggest you walk away now," Minho managed to hiss from his tightly clenched jaw.

Whit took another step forward. "Let me be very clear, here," he said, his lackeys flanking him on either side, bolstering his confidence and making him bolder than he should have been. "Until this point, we have not had an issue – you go about your business, and I go about mine. No interference, no problems." Minho wasn't sure the several occasions he'd had to put Whit in his place – i.e., kick his ass mercilessly – could qualify as "non-issues", but he let the point slide. "And as long as you continue doing what you do best – looking out for yourself, and no one else – we shall continue to coexist peacefully."

Minho had no intention of changing his lifestyle, nor did he have any idea what Whit was talking about, but he wasn't in the most pacifying mood. "You don't get to tell me what to do, shuckface," he spat.

Whit was momentarily confused as to the new word, but the tone suggested it was meant to be derogatory, so he took offense to it nonetheless. "Careful, brute," he warned. "You are outnumbered, and definitely outsmarted." Minho grinned maniacally, fantasizing about the satisfying snap that would reach his ears if he twisted Whit's neck at just the right angle. "You think this is funny?" Whit raged, stomping his foot and clenching his fists like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Minho had not been able to maintain his isolationist policy for so long by giving into pathetic goading and cheap shots to his ego. But it was just so damn tempting to mark up that smug, sneering maw of his. "A bit," he taunted. "But I have no interest in your _business_."

Whit snorted. "I'm not an idiot," he snarled, standing up to his full height. Whit was several inches taller than Minho – leaner, but with ample strength to land a damaging blow – and used every bit of it to loom over him in an attempt at intimidation. "I've seen the way you look at her, the way she follows you around. I believe that was even your shirt she was sporting this morning." He looked thoughtful for a moment, even daring to smirk at the memory.

The thought of Whit's gaze lingering on Emily's half-naked form caused his blood to boil. It took every ounce of willpower he'd cultivated over his time in the Glade to keep his hands firmly planted at his side. "Stay away from her," he warned, both to Whit and as a reminder to himself.

"Why do you even care, Minho? You're practically a damn monk!" Whit took a moment to calm himself, running a hand through his thick, greasy hair. "Just… don't use this as an excuse to suddenly acquire a bathing buddy," he said, giving Minho a patronizing pat on the chest.

The pieces suddenly fell into place; Emily hadn't told him what had happened, but Whit – the arrogant bastard – had just given himself up. "Last night. Lake. Clothes." Minho couldn't form whole thoughts or whole sentences. His vision had begun to cloud, his breaths coming in irregular gasps and his whole body tensing like a cobra getting ready to strike.

"You had no right to interfere!" Whit snapped, his cool, arrogant façade shattering briefly as his arm twitched, as if intending to backhand Minho across the face then thinking better of it. Whit snorted once and leaned in close. "The girl is _mine_. So you can back off of your own accord… or I can make you."

Whit probably went on making threats, but Minho was past the point of hearing them. His rational brain reminded him that this was not his problem, that what the others did was not his concern so long as it did not involve him. Unfortunately, the argument his mind was trying to force upon his body was drowned out by the thunderous pulse pounding in his ears.

The thin cracks that had been weakening Minho's stronghold of indifference let forth a torrent of irrational emotion that could not, by nature, be tamed by rationality. Sensations flooded his consciousness – wet hair, blue lips, cold skin; bright green eyes that sparked with light and warmth even as the long, dark night threatened to overwhelm them. A body that fit together so perfectly with his that he felt incomplete without it beside him.

With lightning speed, Minho's fist flashed forth and his fingers clamped around the taller boy's throat. Despite the height advantage, Minho's strength had Whit standing on the tips of his toes in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure bearing down on his windpipe. So tight was Minho's grasp that Whit could not even make a sound, so at first the rest of his pack did not know just how much danger their leader was in. His usually arrogant eyes darted around in wild panic, finally registering the true and immediate threat he himself had elicited; he had poked the sleeping bear, and now the bear was royally pissed off.

With his other fist, Minho slammed into Whit's face once, twice, each thrust calculated and accurate, Minho taking his time in positioning his body and building up momentum to deliver the maximum impact. He quickly decided that this stance provided an unsatisfactory amount of leverage, and in one swift motion flipped Whit onto his back and pinned him to the ground with his massive frame.

Before he could land another blow, a small voice – the only one that could have penetrated his angry fog – whispered his name. "Minho." It was an exclamation, a plea, an admonishment, all rolled into one. As much as he wanted to continue maiming his prey, he wanted even more to look at the one he was defending. He wasn't prepared for the mixture of horror and sadness that distorted her usually fearless expression.

The scene upon which Emily came shook her to her core. Alby's story hung like a dark cloud over her thoughts and senses, causing her to wonder if this would be the altercation that turned them all against each other, if this would be the day that broke their whole world apart.

"Let him go," she commanded, her unsteady voice lacking the authority to make him comply.

The vulnerability he'd seen in her was quickly replaced – or at the very least concealed – by a mask of defiance and certainty. The distant and crazed glint in Minho's eyes dissipated somewhat, now replaced by a focused anger that turned to Emily's incredulous request. "What? Why? He was the one…" Minho shook his head, trying to clear his mind and form a logical reply. "You could have died!"

Emily was well aware of the dangers Whit posed to her; even now he was appraising her, seemingly flattered by her defense of him and completely unaware that it, in fact, had absolutely nothing to do with him. She placed her hands on her hips and raised her voice, hoping that the increased volume would mimic the confidence it lacked. "You were right, Minho. You can't protect me." And if he tried, might go off on a murder spree and kill everyone we know. "I don't need you to, and I don't… want you to."

The first part of her declaration was only partially true; she would've died already without Minho's help. But the second part… that was truer than she cared to admit. She had been deceiving herself in thinking she could put her faith in him. Whoever he used to be, whoever her subconscious mind was telling her he was – that boy was gone, and in his place was a volatile, unpredictable trauma survivor that couldn't seem to decide whether he was the victim or the villain.

Minho's stomach dropped; it was exactly what he had wanted from her, so why was he so entirely unprepared to hear it? Of course she didn't want to be around him – he had already assaulted Emily once today, in the Maze, and now here he was with another man's blood painted across his knuckles. He had kept that part of himself locked away for so long, and maybe a part of him had hoped that being around Emily would banish it altogether; but all it took was one mention of the girl for him to lose it. Well, now she had seen the monster, and clearly it terrified her.

Minho released the boy in his grasp with a huff, slamming Whit's body into the ground once more for good measure, before stalking off in the direction of his tent.

"Thanks, beautiful. I had it handled, but it's nice to know I've got your support," Whit began, the undeserved bravado in his voice tainted and weakened from the near strangulation as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Before he could get fully up, Emily knelt beside him and shoved hard enough against his chest to put his back flat against the ground. Far enough away that she was not within Whit's reach and loud enough so that all those around them could hear, she stated, "This does not mean I'm on your side – but murder is bad for morale – even yours. You disgust me, and if you try and touch me again, I'll kill you myself."

She wasn't sure her tiny frame could actually overpower the man before her, and even less sure that she _would_ , if the time ever came. But Emily never intended to have to make good on the threat; she hoped that delivering it in front of witnesses would be safer, would knock Whit down a few pegs. So when she walked away, Emily missed the cold and calculating glare that had settled on her back.

Whit was fuming, murderous. The bruises on his face would heal, could be explained away by the unrestrained ruthlessness of a dog off his leash. But Emily's rejection – so public, so final – would leave a lasting impression on his followers. If he was going to keep his position of power, he would have to find a way to re-instill the fear and respect that ensured him his position of authority. Without his pack, a wolf – even the pack leader – could not survive. Which is why this wolf needed to find a way to teach his bitch a lesson.


	7. Chapter 7

Emily slept with her back to the wall that night; at least if she was retaliated against, she would see it coming. The ground still held some of the warmth from the hot summer's day, creating a pleasant contrast with the cool stone pressed against her back. Though she told her brain to concentrate, commanded her body to stay sharp, she eventually succumbed to the loud, dissonant songs of the tree frogs filling her head with white noise. Somewhere in the remaining depths of her consciousness was a warning, but still her eyes blinked once, twice, then drifted shut.

She awoke with a start, as if all the anxiety and keen sense of awareness she should have been using throughout the night flooded into her mind all at once. Whit hadn't come for her that night, but she knew that it was only a matter of time; he would one day. As the siren sounded again, Emily realized why she had awoken so suddenly. The sound was not so much loud as it was deep, traveling over and through your body, resonating deep within your bones.

The Maze had already opened its doors, but instead of his usual daily run, Minho was standing in the crowded half-circle gathered in the middle of the Glade. He seemed to be radiating anxiety and tension, hulking arms crossed tightly across his chest and trademark scowl glaring down at the metal doors in the ground. Not wanting to worsen his mood – and, frankly, still quite terrified of the man – Emily sidled up next to Newt.

"What's going on?" she asked, eyes darting amongst all the onlookers.

"What, don't you remember?" Newt asked, cocking his head to the side. Emily's eyebrows shot up, looking like an unprepared student being called on by the teacher. "It hasn't been that long," he continued, expecting her to catch on. When she didn't, he added, "How did you think you got here, love?"

Though Minho knew the term of endearment was neutral in Newt's odd way of speaking, the casual intimacy still grated on his nerves and he could not suppress an eye roll that was only slightly jealous.

"Oh," she replied. Of course. The box was coming up to bring more supplies. And another boy (or girl)? She chewed her bottom lip between her teeth, now both embarrassed and slightly anxious.

The casual glance Minho had been casting toward Emily lingered a little too long in watching her anxious tick – the way she would consciously stop, only to start again mere seconds later when her mind wandered back to the cause of the worry; the way her mouth moistened and reddened with every tiny nip; the way her cheeks slowly darkened in a blush to match when she looked at Minho looking at her– crap! Minho jerked his head to the side hard enough to crack his neck and slunk further back into the crowd. Out of sight, out of mind.

When Emily saw the way Minho was looking at her – similar to the way Whit looked at her, though his gaze turned her to ice while Minho's set her ablaze – she couldn't help the flush that rose up her neck and into her cheeks. Though the burning in her face was nothing compared to the fire she felt elsewhere. Luckily, before she could do anything foolish (like tackle the homicidal loner to the ground and rip off his clothes), the earth shuddered with one final rumbling groan, screeching as the metallic box ground to a halt within it.

The doors swung wide, eliciting a collective pause as everyone quickly examined the contents of their delivery. Most of the others were concerned with the physical materials – which, to be fair, there were of than they would know what to do with – but Emily's eyes were trained on the boy stretch awkwardly across the center. He looked up and her breath caught; though the boy could not see anything after having been in the dark confines of the box for, as far as he could remember, his entire life, the Gladers got a good look at him. And a good look it was.

The boy was tall – long and lanky, like Newt, but with a fair bit more muscle. His skin was deeply tanned with a thick head of hair as dark as the night, which made his sky blue eyes light up in contrast. All right, so he was hot. Still, though Emily spent a little too long appreciating his outward appearance, it couldn't hold a candle to Newt's expression. His mouth literally hung open, and his eyes were wide enough that she could see the whites all the way around.

Emily gave Newt's shoulder a little shove, but he didn't even move. She stood up on her tiptoes – which only brought her up to about to his collarbone – and whispered, "Maybe someone should go welcome him." When Newt still made no move, she rolled her eyes and gave him another shove, much harder and with the best of intentions, from behind.

Newt stumbled forward a few steps, seeming to snap out of it, and clambered into the box; when he got closer, his eyes started to glaze over once more and he still hadn't spoken a word. Realizing that Newt had made about as much of an introduction as he was capable of, Emily hopped down into the box after him. She was rifling through what looked to be architectural plans – furniture, walls, fences, etc. – while some of the others had already found several shovels long enough to engage in an epic mockery of swordsmanship.

"Newt, look!" Emily exclaimed, seeing a design for something she recognized, though she could not for the life of her remember where. She pointed with excitement at the elaborate patterns in her hand.

Newt, finally able (though somewhat unwilling) to pull his eyes away from the newcomer, looked down at the paper. "It looks like… a greenhouse? And maybe a pantry? And… oh look! A trellis!"

Emily could not get nearly as excited about plants as Newt, but his enthusiasm was infectious and she found herself grinning from ear to ear. The other boy – who, much to her own embarrassment looked entirely unfazed by his drastic change in circumstance – seemed to feel it too, as he was already smiling when he came up beside them to sneak a peek at the papers Newt had snatched from her.

"Maybe with some fences, we might even get some actual meat off these animals!" Emily exclaimed, relishing the though. Some livestock had been delivered to the Glade before, but they'd had no way to contain them; there were now wild pigs in the woods, she was certain, but most had probably escaped into the Maze and become griever fodder at night. "At least these guys are still contained in their—"

As if on cue, her remark was cut off as the raging war grew in both scale and intensity. It was now a full-on brawl, and Emily noted that even Minho was throwing in a few gleeful slashes with a hammer; in fact, his enthusiasm was bordering on manic. She shook her head. Boys. Finally, the battle coming to a head, one of the younger kids was thrown clear across the box and slammed into a nearby crate. Of course, this happened to snap the piece of lumber that happened to hold the lock to the container that happened to hold their would-be dinners.

The warriors paused for a moment to stare down their new enemy; adversaries as old as time – man versus beast – stared at each other. One of the boys let out a battle cry – somewhere between a screaming infant and a professional yodeler – and chaos ensued. Both sides, whether on two legs or four, dove and dodged and squealed and squawked in a comical yet horrifying explosion of dirt and feathers. Only Newt, Emily, and the new guy remained standing dumbstruck in the center of the box.

"This place is bloody mental." The boy's voice was as rich as his complexion, and also held a faint hint of an accent, though not pronounced enough to pinpoint. At the sound, Newt turned to him and started to get doe-eyed again. When he gave Newt a crooked grin and honest-to-god wink, she swore that Newt actually ceased to breathe for a moment.

"Well, I'm just gonna…" Emily clapped her hands together once and took a few steps back. Neither of the boys paid her any attention, so she simply spun around and walked quickly away from her awkward and sudden third-wheel situation.

The Gladers hadn't realized just how bored they'd been until they finally had something constructive to _do_ – a collective task that allowed them to put aside their differences and work together to build something of their own, something they could call home.

The architectural drawings that had come up in the box ranged everywhere from simple – like a table and stools – to complex – like a two story house. They all tried their hands at various pieces until they discovered their individual strengths. They fell into a rhythm – planning, gathering, preparing, assembling, and testing. The devastatingly handsome new guy (or Charlie, if you wanted to call him by the name of a mere mortal) was patient and had a knack for keeping in mind the big picture and managing all the individual moving parts to come together at the end. Newt was good at the fine details and making each piece unique and meaningful, though he might have just been showing off for Charlie's sake.

Emily, as it turned out, was terrible about following directions, but also had very little natural architectural prowess; everyone quickly learned not to volunteer to test out her 'personalized' prototypes. And Minho… well, Minho contributed what he always did – judgmental glares and a holier-than-thou attitude. Though he assisted – when he wasn't preoccupied with running in circles in the Maze – he never failed to point out a lopsided chair or weak frame. Emily's inventions were a goldmine of derision and ridicule.

"That thing couldn't support a cricket," Minho said, waving a hammer in the general direction of her third attempt at a rocking chair.

"It most certainly could!" Emily was pretty damn proud of the seat, if she did say so herself.

"Prove it," he challenged, pausing in his work to cross his arms over his chest and give her a chastising look.

Emily looked back and forth between the untested furniture and Minho's smug expression. Her tailbone was already bruised from previous tests, but she had a point to prove. She lowered her butt slowly, hovering just an inch above the seat; Minho walked to the side and stared pointedly at the gap.

"All the way," he prodded, the corner of his lips already turning up in a smile.

Emily closed her eyes and ever so gently grazed her thighs against the top. Lowering a little more there was an aching creak, but the structure held, until she could officially put all her weight on it. She let out the breath she'd been holding and grinned triumphantly back up at the boy that had doubted her.

"Ha! Take that, shuckface!" she shouted, clutching at the arms and pushing her feet against the ground to have a victory rock in her new rocking chair. Unfortunately, though the base was sturdy enough, the back of the chair was not properly fitted into place and snapped off as soon as she leaned back. With a surprised squeal, Emily rolled straight off the back of the chair, doing a sort of reverse somersault and, once again, landing flat on her ass.

All the Gladers were in stitches, and it would be a good half hour before anymore work would actually get done.

"Alright, so the back needs a little tweaking," she admitted, wincing as she kneaded her palm gingerly into the tender spot at the base of her spine. Minho offered a hand to help her up, which she accepted with a steely glare. "And you're not allowed to sit in it," she warned, squinting up at his crooked grin.

"Wouldn't want to." Minho was still holding her hand; butterflies were wreaking havoc on her insides, but Emily told herself it was just embarrassment. He leaned in closer, eyes still sparkling with amusement, and her heart pounded so furiously that her ears were pulsing. "Can't run with a broken leg," he explained, finally releasing his hold on her and getting back to the task he'd been working on.

Emily found herself staring at Minho as he worked – the way his muscles danced beneath his slick olive skin; the way he repositioned himself to be precise and deliver the maximum impact with every blow; the way the dust particles swirled and wisped around him in a small patch of sunlight, making it appear as if he was glowing.

"Chair's not gonna fix itself," Newt commented, clamping a hand on her shoulder. Emily jumped, only slightly embarrassed by the shameless ogling he'd happened upon. A little too quickly, she dove for the splintered pieces that had broken off and set laser focus on ensuring their proper reattachment.

By the end of the first few days, they had enough seats – including two 100% safe and sittable rockers – to hold each person in the Glade. After a few weeks, they had assembled a canopied sea of hammock beds and a small shack that would eventually hold their food supply. As the box was set to come back up the next day, there was a bit of a race to finish setting the fence posts and enclosing the area that would hold their livestock.

When the box did finally arrive, their hard work was rewarded with all kinds of trimmings for their new home – seeds for the garden, blankets for the beds, even cookware. In fact, the boy that arrived with the box came out swinging wildly one of the heavy cast iron skillets, which earned him the moniker Frypan. He would recall later that his actual name was Elvin, but they were all in agreement that Frypan was a vast improvement.

Despite all the provisions from the Creators, there were no more animals to be found. If they wanted meat, they would have to get it the old fashioned way.

"Guess we'll have to have ourselves a good old-fashioned fox hunt," Whit said, an excited gleam in his eye.

"I didn't know there were foxes here," another boy added.

"Can you even eat those?" someone asked.

"Not literal foxes, you moron," Whit explained, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and closing his eyes, looking like a parent trying to explain to his child for the hundredth time why he can't eat glue.

"I ain't chasin' after no dumb animals," one of the others chimed in. There were some mutters of agreement – after all, they were all exhausted just from the manual labor they had been putting forth, and there were still several monstrous projects to tackle.

"Well personally, I'm a little tired of being a vegetarian," Emily countered, practically salivating at the idea of a meal of bacon and eggs. She looked at Whit and they actually shared a knowing, if not friendly smile.

"Looks like you boys could use some incentive," he teased, scratching his chin and pretending as though he didn't already have an idea.

"Surely you don't have something in mind?" she said, playing along.

"Hmm, well they say you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so how about we sweeten the deal?" Whit looked around at his attentive audience, building the suspense. "Our very next project will be this here Homestead," he announced, waving around the large diagram of the massive two story structure for emphasis. "Let's say whoever wrangles up the most meat… gets to pick the sleeping arrangements?"

He'd said it like a question, but it was more of a challenge. For a moment, Emily had forgotten her history with Whit, forgotten what he did and could do to her. She wanted a bed – god, did she want to sleep in an actual bed, with four walls and a damn door that could _lock_ – but she had no doubt that, should Whit win, her coveted bed would end up right next to his (if he didn't have in mind to even share a bed). Emily shuddered at the thought – she would rather spend the night in the Maze and take her chances with the grievers over Whit's roaming hands.

"Deal," she said, reaching out her hand to shake on it. Instead, Whit knelt down in a mockery of a bow, and reached out and kissed her hand. It would have almost seemed gentlemanly, if his lips didn't linger there just a little too long, forcing Emily to jerk her hand out of his grasp and wipe the lingering wetness on her pants.

"This is a terrible idea," Minho said. He knew what happened when the members of a community were pitted against each other. He knew what happened when one side lost, and – sometimes worse – when the other side won. This wouldn't end well for anyone.

"Frypan," Whit addressed the newest member of the Glade and completely ignoring Minho's comment, "would you do the honors of being our judge? You know, to ensure that no one cheats?" His tongue lingered on the "s" long enough that the word almost sounded like a hiss.

Frypan looked between Whit and Emily, weighing the benefits of not having to choose sides against the disadvantages of not being able to win. Then he looked at Minho, who gave a disapproving shake of his head. "Only if I get to have my own room, no matter who wins," he countered, crossing his arms across his chest and raising a challenging eyebrow; this was a condition, not a suggestion. Emily smiled – she was going to like this boy, she decided.

Minho turned to Emily, sure that she could at least see reason. "Don't do this." The words were as close to a plea as she'd ever heard – haunted, and filled with sadness and regret. Minho's position was borne out of fear, fear that the past was doomed to repeat itself. But Emily, despite it all, was an optimist, and refused to believe that it would ever come to that again.

"Only if you agree to be our resident chef," she said, turning to Frypan and countering his counteroffer. She jutted one hip out to the side, issuing a challenge of her own.

Frypan gave one crooked smile and without hesitating answered, "Deal. You have," he began, looking up at the sun that was still high in the sky, "until sundown. Most animals this side of the fence," he pointed inside the small enclosure they'd built, "wins."

Minho snorted and turned to stalk off toward his tent. This would cause a rift amongst them – maybe in a day, maybe a month, but eventually – and he wanted no part in it. To hell with them – they could go ahead and destroy themselves for all he cared, but Minho would be damn sure to be the one left standing.

"So the terms are set. We have our judge and our stakes. The hunt begins… NOW!" Whit shouted, already taking off toward an errant chicken that had wandered too close to the treeline.

Whit was fast, but Emily was faster. She quickly surpassed him, bounding after the feathered creature, which was shockingly fast for having such scrawny, short legs. The adrenaline combined with an endorphin rush was enough to actually cause her to giggle with delight. Plus, there was absolutely nothing funnier than a chicken in a full-on sprint.

She was only a few yards ahead of her competition, but it was enough to close the distance; she took one flying leap through the air, landing nearly on top of the squawking animal. Her body hovered around it like a cage, and she almost laughed at the flurry of wings flapping against her midsection and the absurdity of her situation. But before she could tighten her hold, Whit caught up with them and snatched the bird right out from under her.

"Thanks for making this so easy for me, sweetheart," he drawled, blowing a little kiss to Emily, who was still on all fours on the ground.

Whit was already running back toward Frypan, but Emily would not give up her prize so easily. She sprang up, already moving forward, and pushed her legs as hard as they would go; to Whit's surprise, she caught up to him before he even made it half way. A small crowd had gathered around Frypan and the newly created livestock pen just to watch the competition, and obviously they were not disappointed.

Emily leapt in front of Whit and, as if stealing a basketball from her opponent, gave one hard shove to the fleshy underbelly of the chicken and dislodged it from his grasp. The bird flapped and squawked helplessly to the ground, at which point Newt snatched it up, glaring at the two who had treated the animal with such flippancy.

"It's alright now, pretty girl," he cooed, stroking the bird's ruffled feathers, "the mean people won't harass you anymore." He gave one derisive _hmmph_ before turning his back to Whit and Emily and walking toward the pen. As he reached down he whispered, "Don't worry. Just lay us some nice eggs and we won't make you into dinner." Newt looked up to see Charlie staring at him, grinning and shaking his head. Newt's pasty complexion reddened, having been caught comforting a creature that would, in all likelihood, be eaten before too long.

"That's one point for Newt!" Frypan announced, crossing his arms across his broad chest and daring anyone to protest his chosen method of scoring. Emily and Whit looked back and forth between Frypan and each other; the first catch had neither of them losing to to other, but technically, they were both still losing.

The outcome of this battle would set the tone for their entire future in the Glade, and they both took off back toward the woods, both more determined than ever to win. The sun was still high in the sky; it was going to be a long day.


	8. Chapter 8

As bad as Emily was at building things, that's how good she was at chasing after things. The actual catching part took a little getting used to, but once she got the hang of it, she had half a dozen points to her name within the span of a few hours. Unfortunately, Whit was keeping pace, and – shockingly – even cheating a little.

The rest of Whit's pack – no doubt promised a space in the coveted Homestead – was aiding him in finding and retrieving the pigs and roosters. Emily found a cow once, which she argued should at least have been worth double. But according to Frypan's established rules, each animal counted as one point (how hard was it to catch a thousand pound animal, he argued; well, catching it was one story, herding it into a damn barn was an entirely different one), and as long as Whit was the one who physically put them in the pen, the point was his.

The hours ticked by and the sun began to disappear behind the Maze walls. The Gladers had rounded up 27 chickens (mostly hens, though there were a few roosters), 14 pigs, 3 cows, and 6 goats. Whit's count stood at 16, while Emily was only at 11. She was racing through the trees and around the perimeter of the Glade, but no wild movements caught her eye; the place had been picked clean. Not that she would have been able to capture six birds all at once without at least a few superpowers and a very large net.

Emily leaned her back against a tree and slid to the ground, her aching and overused muscles throbbing in protest to the ordeal she'd just put them through.

"He's never going to let you live this down," a voice commented from the other side of her tree.

"Nope," she said, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of rich earth, enjoying what was probably the last of her dignity.

"This was a stupid game," Minho continued, reveling in the fact that he was right.

She wanted to put up more of a fight, but her empty hands and the rapidly twitching muscles of her thighs were proof that she had failed. "Most definitely," she finally agreed, gently kneading her palms into all the fleshy parts of her legs.

The leaves rustled as Minho shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other, though he still remained out of view. "Why are you even doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This. All of this. I mean, what's the point? We're either going to find a way out of this place, or die trying." As far as Minho was concerned, it was to their benefit to be as uncomfortable as possible in this place. Change only occurred when the pain of discomfort outweighed the price of uncertain risk; if they became too comfortable in the Glade, what incentive would there be for them to try and get out?

Emily was getting quite tired of his broody, nihilistic pessimism. She pushed herself off the ground – with only the slightest wince and groan – and set her hands on her hips as she turned to face him.

"Alright, mister ray of sunshine, what would you prefer I do? Skulk around the Glade being bitter and angry? Shut down my emotions and push away anyone who might get close to me? Choose to instead spend my days alone with the grievers in the Maze searching for something that may not even exist?"

"You wouldn't have to be alone." The words were out of his mouth before Minho could even process the thought, and ended up taking them both by surprise. Emily's hands dropped from their petulant position at her waist, her lips parting on a quick inhalation.

"What do you mean?" For a second, she could have sworn she saw something flash behind his eyes, but it was gone before she could place it; Minho locked it deep behind the walls of his guarded heart before he himself could even recognize it. Instead, he chose to apply his words to the latter part of her satirical suggestion.

"You could run the Maze," Minho started; then, when she was on the verge of an eye roll, "…with me."

Emily didn't know if the offer was serious or if he was just trying to cover up a slip of the tongue. "You're missing the point, Minho." He stared at her like a confused puppy – a gruff, stubborn, slightly aggressive puppy. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers and sighed. "For what it's worth, I think you're right; if there is a way out of this place, it is probably hidden within the depths of those stone walls somewhere. But if you're not, if this is it, this is all we get," she made a show of throwing her hands in the air and gesturing to their little world in all its unwelcoming glory, "…then we need to _build_ something here. We need to make this our home. For as long as we're here."

Minho couldn't comprehend her position. A home was somewhere you felt safe, a place that you shared with people you loved. They'd all had a home once, and it was stolen from them – completely erased. This was a prison. "Will you still feel that way when your _home_ ," he couldn't keep the patronizing tone out of the word, "is in a room you have to share with Whit?"

Emily wrinkled her nose. "If you weren't so cynical and actually bothered to participate, I could be sharing a bedroom with _you_." It was only after she said it that Emily realized how that sounded. "I didn't mean… I wasn't asking… just… you could have your own…" she trailed off, mumbling incoherently.

Minho either hadn't heard or chose to ignore the implication, too busy trying to make his own point. "Let's say you win. We finish all these little construction projects. You get your own room, Whit has to sleep outside with the pigs. Then what? We all live unhappily ever after?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest, barely able to tuck his hands beneath his elbows for all the muscle beneath them.

Emily smiled, though it was sad and pitying. "Comfort isn't the same thing as complacency, Minho. Just because I want to make the most of my time here doesn't mean I'll ever want to stop searching for a way out." She wasn't stupid, after all. Their time there, as eternal as it might have seemed at the moment, was temporary.

"I was hoping you'd say something like that," Minho said with a crooked grin, no doubt assuming that her last statement meant that he'd won the argument. "I'll make you a deal – if I help you win today, you have to start running the Maze with me."

Emily's heart started thumping not exactly faster, but certainly more violently in her chest, as if trying to escape the confines of its own prison. She told herself it was because she might actually win herself a little peace and privacy, and not because Minho was volunteering to spend the majority of his days alone with her. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and Emily licked her lips and swallowed hard before answering.

"Unless you're a magician that can pull half a dozen birds out of your hat, I don't exactly see how that's possible."

"Is that a yes?" Emily didn't have anything to lose – and everything to gain – and did her best to shrug in confirmation like it was no big deal; in reality, it probably looked more like she was having a small seizure.

Minho waggled his eyebrows at her before turning and weaving his massive frame through a few saplings, pausing behind a large trunk. Emily swayed from side to side and craned her neck to try and see what he was doing. When he turned back around, she nearly lost her balance in trying haphazardly to feign a casual stance. Across his back laid a long wooden stick, on which hung the carcasses of at least six chickens.

Emily sputtered and started to protest before Minho cut her off.

"The rules were to catch and retrieve livestock. There was nothing that said they had to be alive when you returned with them," he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

The wheels turned in Emily's mind as she pondered his theory, but he was right! She threw her arms around his torso, not bothering to contain her growing excitement. Normally, the gesture wouldn't have provided enough momentum to cause his gigantic mass to budge, but the action had taken him so off guard that he stumbled back against the tree trunk, taking her with him. Her grateful eyes bore into his for a long moment; she worried her bottom lip between her teeth and stared at him for just a second too long. Minho cleared his throat and broke eye contact.

"But don't think I'm carrying this back for you," he gruffed, tossing the unbalanced meat stick onto her petite shoulders. She wobbled as the swinging weight settled and normalized on her frame, then reached up on her tiptoes to give Minho a light peck on the cheek before squealing in delight and trotting back with her prize.

"I owe you a bedroom!" she called over her shoulder when Minho didn't follow her.

The inappropriate possibilities began to play out in his mind before he mentally shook himself and, though she was long out of earshot, muttered, "I think I'll stick with my tent."

Whit was of course outraged that the dead birds had counted toward her score, but he had exploited a loophole in the judging as well. For the first time since she'd entered the Glade – so, for the first time she could remember – Emily actually felt a sense of peace, of purpose, of belonging. She felt… hopeful.

As night fell, the sky seemed a few shades darker than usual, the wind whistling through the trees as if telling secrets. Then the rain began; soft at first, the steady precipitation soon turned into a downpour and the grassy Glade became more of a swamp.

The wind went from whistling to howling, felling tree branches and swirling debris in dangerous vortices like mini tornadoes tearing through an open plain. The animals instinctually went inside the barn, and the Gladers soon followed suit into the little one room hut they'd finished just days earlier.

Minho scoffed at them – cowering together because of one little storm – as he trudged off to his little hut. It would be loud and uncomfortable, but the material was thick and tightly woven, and he liked his chances better alone in his own tent than an untested shelter with over a dozen skittish boys.

Emily was at the threshold of the barn, being beckoned and herded in by Newt and Charlie, when she caught sight of Minho securing the corners of his tent. She wanted to shake her head at the breadth of his tenacity and stubbornness when a thought occurred to her. Before anyone had a chance to realize she was missing, Emily had darted halfway across the Glade.

Minho saw her take off from the shelter in his general direction. He steeled himself for the inevitable lecture and guilt trip she would use to try and get him to what she considered to be a safer location. The lecture never came, though, as she streaked past him toward the treeline, never even slowing down. Without thinking, Minho closed the distance between them in a few long strides and grabbed her arm, using his considerable mass to grind them to a halt.

"What the hell! Let go of me!" She tried to wrest her arm from his grasp, but it was tight and unyielding.

"Where are you going? You shouldn't be out here in this storm." He glanced between her and his tent and the barn, weighing his options, the amount of effort it would take to drag her to safety, how much time they had before the storm became lethal.

"You're one to talk," she countered, donning a scowl that rivaled his own.

"My tent is perfectly –"

"I don't care. Let go of my arm." She tried again to pry herself free from his grasp.

"Not until you tell me where you're going," he ground out between clenched teeth. She was surprisingly difficult to hold onto, and she was testing his very limited patience.

Emily bit her lip, anxious and conflicted, before finally telling him the truth. "Alby is still out there. In the woods. He's not… well, he's not doing great. He needs help, and he probably can't protect himself on his own."

"If anyone can find a way to keep themselves alive, it's him," he spat. "You do not need to risk your life to save him. God, does he even want to be saved?" The only reason Minho had bothered to keep himself alive was so that everything he went through, everything he did, would not have been for nothing.

Emily twisted her arm, noting the rain provided some lubrication. "Maybe he doesn't know what he wants. But you know what? I don't care. He matters. You matter. Those who don't remember the past are doomed to repeat it." She paused in her struggle to break free to stare up at him, eyes wide and voice barely above a whisper. "He matters because he _remembers_ , Minho."

It was then that all the pieces fell into place – her long absences in the woods, the way she acted with diplomacy instead of emotion, the reason she looked at Minho like he was a bomb that could go off at any moment. She had found Alby, and he had told her everything.

It was that realization that caused his grip to loosen on her arm, and she wrenched out of his grasp and took off again toward her objective. By the time Minho shook himself out of it, she was too far ahead for him to catch her. The wind was now at a steady roar that pierced his ears and rattled his skull, rendering otherwise harmless branches and stones deadly weapons, should they land a blow in just the right place.

Minho raced the few paces back to his tent, yanking the ties loose from their anchors and balling up the fabric before it caught the wind. He didn't know where Alby was – frankly, he hadn't even been certain the boy was still alive before Emily mentioned him – and the conditions made it nearly impossible to see or hear. Still, he crossed over and through the treeline, sharp eyes only able to make out vague shapes in the oppressive darkness.

Emily found Alby just as he always was – huddled by the wall of the dead and, by all appearances, being completely indifferent to the circumstances surrounding him. The only difference this time, which she would have missed had she not spent so much time studying him in the weeks prior, was a wild glint in his eyes – wider than usual, and casting glances around too quickly to be considered casual – that meant perhaps he still had some will to live, some self preservation instinct screaming at him that he was in trouble, that his life was in danger.

She approached him slowly, so as not to startle or alarm him, crouching low and spreading her arms out wide. She had expected him to recoil, to flee, so she was taken completely off guard when he sprung onto his knees and threw his arms around her.

"I don't want to die," he whispered, clinging to her like a child to its mother in the presence of a stranger. It was the most physical contact he'd allowed between them, and she hadn't realized just how thin and frail Alby was – he was all skin and bones, for months having done nothing but sit and mourn and consume just enough food to sustain his existence.

Emily held him – again, like a mother comforting her frightened child – and tried to come up with a plan. The wind was raging, though even it was drowned out by the thunderous scream of the falling rain – miniscule little pellets landing with such speed that they were like pins and needles piercing the skin and changing direction with every whim of the wind. She couldn't see, couldn't hear, could barely feel as her skin became numb to the pain and the wet and the cold.

Then the sensory overload became a bit more bearable – the rain a dull pulsing, the wind a distant scream. Emily looked up and saw that she and Alby were shielded on their right side by a swath of white material. When she looked at the end of it, she saw Minho furiously tying knots to anchor the fabric of his tent to the trees in a protective semi-circle around them. He was glaring at the intricate designs his hands were creating, but Emily knew the look would have been directed at her if Minho could have divided his focus.

In between trees, he did spare an icy glance in Emily's direction, though it softened imperceptibly when he saw what remained of his once friend gripping her for dear life. His tent had not been all that big to start with, and stretching it out to all sides had only given them an extra couple feet of space. Minho secured the last corner of his tent and plopped down in the middle – trying to keep his distance in a stubborn display of his remaining ire – but his knees still brushed against her waist. She was soaking wet, but still warm – ablaze with determination and purpose.

Minho had stretched the fabric of his tent as far is it would go, but that still left about a three foot gap between the nearest tree and the wall. They would be fine as long as the wind didn't…

Before Minho could even finish the thought – and as if someone was controlling the storm and directing it to maximum possible damage – a massive air current began to howl directly through the narrow opening. It was as if the narrow gap created a wind tunnel effect, concentrating the intensity of the storm and releasing it in one powerful stream.

In an instinct to protect, Emily twisted around with Alby still in her arms so that her small frame was covering most of his, shielding him from the incoming projectiles. Something – though it was moving too quickly to identify; a rock? a stick? – flew through the opening, Emily's lips forming an eerily silent scream as it was drowned out by the storm.

Minho may not have heard her, but he saw the blood streaking across her temple and streaming down her cheek. The rational part of his brain told him that she would be fine, that it was just a scratch, that head wounds tended to bleed more than others. And yet the other part screamed that if it had landed just a few inches this way or that, she could have lost an eye, her hearing, her life. This was the part of his brain that spurred him to rise from his spot on the ground and position himself directly in the gap between the wall and the protection of the tent.

It was as if a fire hydrant had been shut off, and the silence was startling. Emily opened her eyes and was surprised to find a trail of blood smeared across her arm. She inspected Alby, but found no marks on his body; it was then she noted the hot, pulsing throb pounding on the side of her head. She pressed her palm against the weeping wound and hissed as the pressure heightened the pain. Emily was so focused on herself and her charge that she hadn't noticed Minho was no longer at her side.

Minho was struggling. One minute, the wind would threaten to suck him out into the forest, and the next would almost catapult him on top of those he was trying to protect. His shoulders burned in trying to hold himself steady in the opening, and the pain at his back was crippling – he couldn't tell anymore whether he was being whipped with tree branches or simply the wind, whether the moisture dripping down his back was from the rain or his own blood; he was shaking from the effort.

Then, a snapped tree branch sliced like a dagger across his shoulder, and what was definitely blood bloomed warm and wet across his back. Though he prided himself on his ability to suffer in silence, he must have let out some sort of strangled moan, because Emily's head whipped up and morphed into a mask of horror as Minho dropped to his knees.

Alby had curled in on himself, now in the relative safety Minho had provided, so Emily was free to rush over to him. She knelt in front of him, placing her hands on his shoulders and generating a new burning within him. Her face was just inches from his, but the sounds of the storm had been so loud and so constant, that neither of them could hear the other. They spoke without words.

Emily cupped on of her hands around his cheek; his jaw was clenched tight as he struggled to command his aching body to obey his will. _Thank you._

Minho narrowed his eyes and nodded toward Alby's cowering form. _You risked your life, and mine, for that?_

Emily took her bottom lip between her teeth and lowered her gaze. _You didn't have to come._ She looked back up into his remaining scowl and cocked her head. _Why did you come?_

Minho looked away – at Alby, at the trees, at the names carved in the wall, names that he had carved into the stone himself. He looked everywhere but at Emily; when his gaze finally landed on her, it softened. _For you._

Emily's breath caught and her heart raced for reasons entirely unrelated to their precarious situation. She wanted to be nearer to Minho, but didn't want to disturb the delicate balance he was maintaining as the gatekeeper between them and the apocalyptic storm. Still on her knees, she shuffled closer to him and shimmied up against his chest, placing her small hand over his straining heart. _I would have done the same for you_.

She tucked her head under his chin and he arced instinctively around her, rounding his shoulders and using his broad chest to create a small shelter for her within their shelter. They rode out the storm like that – Minho using himself as a protective shield, and Emily acting as the core support that kept him upright. Minho could not protect the whole Glade. He couldn't force the Gladers to get along, couldn't change what happened with the food or the weather or the box or the grievers; hell, he might not even be able to find a way out of the damn Maze. But her? This small, impulsive, irrational, trusting to a fault girl that took refuge in his presence? He could protect her. Minho sighed, grinning as he realized that he had been doing that ever since she'd arrived anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

The storm passed before the night, but when the storm ended and the clouds parted, the moon seemed to shine brighter than the sun ever had. Alby had long since fallen asleep, comfortable in his own way, and Emily was still curled against Minho's chest. She looked up at him and couldn't help the smile that overtook her expression; she expected to feel the full force of Minho's scowl, and so was taken off guard when he let out a laugh – deep and genuine – that cause his whole body to resonate with it. The sound moved over and through Emily as she struggled to remain in his arms.

"What?" she demanded, trying to pout, but unable to resist joining in with his infectious (albeit, rare) jubilance. Her very unladylike snorts echoed in time with his resounding bellows, creating a surprisingly pleasant cacophony that elicited even more unbridled laughter. When she could finally gain her composure, she asked between gasps of air, "What is so funny?"

In response, Minho reached out one hand, still with half a grin plastered across his face, and brushed his thumb across her cheek. When he pulled it away, he held it in front of her eyes in explanation; the olive skin was like a watercolor of organic material – the dark brown of soil mixed with the deep crimson of dried blood, all caked with little flecks of forest debris. "How can someone so _filthy_ look so damn pleased with themselves?"

Emily returned his smirk with her own mischievous grin. "Well you do it all the time… can't be that hard." She nudged her bony shoulder into his arm playfully, but the gesture wiped the smile form his face and brought forth a hiss of pain. Emily immediately felt guilty – she was the reason Minho was out there in the first place – and peeled herself from his grasp to fully inspect his wounds. "Stay," she commanded, rising to her feet and letting out a small huff as life poured back into her stiff muscles.

Her gentle gesture hadn't really hurt Minho so much as surprised him – physically, he felt like he'd just taken on a griever… and lost. He was about to protest her scrutiny, but found that he rather enjoyed his current view; her wet shirt clung to her skin, which shone as white and pure as the moon in the sky, exposing and highlighting every curve that would normally be tragically buried beneath the loose fabric. Emily brushed her fingers over every inch of his exposed skin, pausing and worrying her lip at every blooming bruise and ragged laceration. She was worried that she was causing him more pain, but honestly she could have been removing his kidney and he probably wouldn't have noticed. When she had finished inspecting his front half, moving out of view to inspect his back, he finally let out a groan of frustration.

"Minho!" she squeaked in horror, pulling her hand back as if it had been burned, "did I hurt you?"

In response, Minho grabbed the mortified hand that was covering her mouth, using his grip to pull her back in front of him. "I'm fine," he gruffed, trying and failing to withhold his impatience. Emily crossed her arms over her chest, cutting off his favorite view in her own show of impatience. "Well I'll live!" Minho growled, throwing his hands in the air in a _whatmoredoyouwantfromme_ motion of surrender.

As Minho's annoyance peaked, Emily's faded completely; she dropped her arms and stepped toward him, her wet clothes almost brushing against his face. Emily threaded her fingers through his dark, fine hair and leaned down so she was at eye level with him. "And so will we," she added, glancing back at Alby's lightly snoring form against the wall. "Thank you, Minho. For saving us." Minho opened his mouth to protest – that he would risk his life for anyone in the Glade was dangerous knowledge to spread around – but she pressed her index finger to his lips. "For saving me," she amended, knowing full well he would not have trudged into the woods during a deadly storm just for Alby. Minho didn't speak, but gave one nod of his head in acknowledgment. "And I'm sorry you got hurt."

Minho scoffed – a quick exhalation akin to the snorting of a bull. "You know this wouldn't have happened if you could manage to keep yourself out of trouble for at least a few hours," he finally said, not one to pass up the opportunity to remind her of the dangers of this place and her all too flippant attitude toward them.

Emily stood up to her full (and not all that impressive) height, once again incensed. "Damnit, Minho, make up your mind!" she ground out between clenched teeth, for Alby's sake trying to rein in what would have been a screech of frustration.

Minho was taken aback by her overreaction; he was always brash, and if anything the remark was more teasing and lighthearted than his usual banter. "Make up my mind about what?" he asked, cocking his head to the side in genuine confusion. Emily knelt down on one knee, squinting into his bewildered expression like a detective staring at a crime scene trying to discern its secrets. She pursed her lips, and Minho could practically hear the wheels spinning in her mind.

"Who are you, really?" Minho just stared, uncomprehending of her meaning. "I have this memory," her brows furrowed in concentration as she tried to remember. "Or, at least I think it's a memory. A feeling, maybe." Her gaze remained far off for a few long moments, wandering the dark halls of the distant past, before refocusing on Minho. "I know things about you."

"Yeah, I guess you heard more than you ever wanted to on that front…" he mumbled bitterly, recalling the wary expression she wore around him after uncovering his violent past.

"No. I mean, yes, I do know those things," she stumbled through her words, and Minho wondered at her nonchalance; what knowledge would cause her to brush off the most defining moments of his past? "But I also know… other things."

Minho noted the blush that had begun creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. "What kinds of things?" he asked, teasing, though his voice was suddenly husky. As if unsure what to do with them, Emily threw her hands in the air, then clenched them at her side before settling on crossing them over her chest. Minho waited, as much with amusement as anticipation, for her to reply.

She started and stuttered several times before again throwing her arms into the air and letting out a deep growl. "Ugh, this is so frustrating – it's like trying to describe a rainbow to a blind man!" Minho captured her arms in his grip and brought them back to her side, bringing her focus back with them. She stared at Minho with her lip out in a deep pout, like a child who was told they couldn't have dessert for dinner; he simply waited, eyebrows raised, for her to find the right words. She blew out a deep breath and continued, "The first time I saw you in the Glade, it was like… like looking into a mirror for the first time. Technically, the person looking back at you is a stranger – you've never seen that person in your life – but somewhere deep down you still know you share an intimate connection with that person." She studied the many shades of brown and gold reflected in Minho's eyes. "The way you stand like a titan bearing the weight of heaven for the sake of earth; the way you move with deliberation and purpose, with no precious energy wasted; the way the same hands that crush stones and wield weapons are also gentle enough to caress and heal." Her eyes, which now seemed to glow like green fire, burned through his very soul. "I _know_ you, Minho."

Minho was dumbstruck; he wasn't much for words in the first place, but could never articulate so eloquent a response. He, too, had had a similar feeling as soon as she came into the Glade. He tried everything to disregard it – denial, repression, rebuttal, refusal – but still a longing from the past he could not remember settled into his marrow with an ache like old bones before a thunderstorm.

As Emily leaned in, Minho followed like the reflection of herself she claimed him to be. The heat from her flushed skin poured over him, and the puffs of their warm and heavy breaths mingled in the cool, humid air. Minho reached out and tucked a wet, matted, leafy strand of blonde hair behind her ear and pressed his forehead to hers. His full bottom lip barely brushed her cupid's bow when a loud snap caused them both to whip around and crouch in anticipation of whatever threat was behind them.

After a quick scan, both sets of eyes landed on Alby's bewildered form, eyes wide though his brain was still cloudy with sleep, as he glanced wildly back and forth between the two of them. Instead of choosing to comment on the romantic moment he'd almost witnessed, Alby swallowed hard and instead queried, "Is the storm over?" The moment was lost as Minho and Emily dissolved into fits of hysteria, both at Alby's stricken (and, honestly, rather horrified) expression, and the bursting of the bubble of tension that seemed to surround them from the first moment they connected in the Glade.

The first purples and pinks of dawn were just starting to streak across the sky as Minho stood, stretching his legs and shoulders with a wince, and reached down a hand to Alby. "Let's go home, brother." Minho's offered hand lingered unaccepted in the air for a few moments as Alby looked between him and Emily, as if asking what he should do. Emily shrugged, and Alby decided to accept the peace offering and let Minho haul him to his feet; he did save his life, after all. Minho was surprised at how easy it was to yank Alby's light, frail body to his feet.

When Minho and Emily emerged from the woods with Alby in tow, Newt threw his arms around him, nearly tackling his malnourished body to the ground. Alby was still unaccustomed to so many watchful eyes, and luckily Newt was happy to do all the talking, filling the other Gladers in on his account of Alby's story; neither Minho nor Alby chose to refute it. Thus, the legend of Alby's heroic emergence and subsequent survival alone in the Glade was born. For this, many of the other Gladers began to treat him with respect, others with fear or suspicion; but no matter how they came to be aware of this withdrawn, haunted soul, everyone knew his name. Uncomfortable with all the added attention, Alby chose to stick close by those he felt most comfortable with; though this newfound camaraderie between Minho and Alby was touching at first, his constant third-wheel presence around Minho and Emily was beginning to grate on Minho's nerves, as it left no opportunities to pick up where they'd left off in the woods.

The days after the storm were spent repairing damage caused by the downpour, and the structures actually became more stable for it. They broke ground on the Homestead, and the box began to come up more frequently – with more raw materials and more young boys, as if the supply was rising to meet the demand. Soon the foundation for their new dwelling was laid, the first strawberry plants were flowering, and the first of many attempts at an acceptable recipe for goat cheese had been executed; the soft spread was sour and salty and tasted faintly of grass, but it was fresh and the Gladers ate it with pride.

Minho and Emily wanted nothing more than to be alone, but until the Homestead was finished, there would never be any true privacy within the confines of the Glade. They managed to occupy themselves with work, stealing glances and the occasional lingering touch when they thought no one was looking. The shift in the dynamics of their relationship were subtle – the way they moved in complement to each other, rather than opposition – but it still didn't escape the notice of the others. Alby, however, was either oblivious to their annoyance at his presence or didn't care.

After a full week of sharing their tent with Alby – like parents whose toddler refuses to sleep in his own bed – they decided to seek solitude in the only place they knew Alby (or anyone else) would not follow. That morning, they decided to run the Maze. Alby looked like a lost little boy, lingering at the threshold to the Maze; but as predicted, they weren't followed.

Both Emily and Minho had forgotten how it felt to run so fast and free, and spent several hours just enjoying the rhythmic footfalls of their matched pace as the wind caressed them like cool silk. Minho was leading, as his mental map of the Maze was much more complete than Emily's, so she was surprised when he slowed to a walk that cornered them in a dead end. Emily furrowed her brow and opened her mouth, no doubt about to make some snarky remark about asking for directions, until Minho turned around and she saw the look in his eyes.

If she'd thought he smoldered with desire the night of the storm, now it was a downright inferno. "Minho!" she squeaked at the unexpected change in mood, unconsciously backing herself into the wall of the Maze.

"Yes?" he queried, lingering on the 's' longer than necessary, his voice a low growl and a mischievous grin plastered on his face. He stalked close enough to Emily that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Warning bells were going off in her head that something was off – he was flushed, breathing hard, his heart racing.

"Minho, are you alright?" She reached out and pressed the back of her hand to his cheek; it was blazing hot.

Minho jerked his chin out of her probing grasp. They were finally alone, and he was not going to let a little sunburn rob him of this moment with her. He grabbed that hand and wrapped it around his waist, guiding the other to do the same. Emily's previous concerns seemed to have been forgotten as her flesh came in contact with his. Minho waited with excruciating restraint as her fingertips wrapped around his narrow hips, dipping under his shirt to trace his abs, which were now clenched tight in anticipation; they moved upward and out, sending pleasurable tingles through his chest and arms, pausing momentarily at the furious pounding of his pulse at the base of his neck.

Instead of giving her the chance to comment, Minho closed the distance, his massive hands pressing into the wall on either side of her to support his weight. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parted in anticipation. He took a moment to remember her like that – warm, excited, sensual; all her desire in that moment was for him, which he admired with great satisfaction.

Minho leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. As her fingers dug into the muscled flesh of his back, it was easy to ignore the searing pain that radiated from his shoulder. The kiss was soft at first – exploring, inviting – then grew into a rhythm and a dance that felt as natural as breathing. The world around him began to fade away, at first in hazy romanticism, then in something much more dark and sinister. It wasn't until his body slammed into the hot, dusty ground that Minho realized he no longer had command of his body. Someone was screaming his name, but the sound was distant, and faded away altogether as his eyes rolled back and his mind went completely black.


	10. Chapter 10

_"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," the artist crooned from the small speaker sitting atop the chrome table as Minho swung Emily around in a hyperbolized version of a slow dance. "You make me happy when skies are gray." He dipped her, supporting her small frame with one arm and sending the other up in the air with the flourish of a professional ballroom dancer._

 _"You'll never know dear, how much I love you," he sang adorably off-key in time with the record._

 _Emily wrinkled her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. "You actually like this song?" she queried as he pulled her back to a vertical position._

 _Minho pulled away and slapped a hand over his heart as if her words had just broken it. "You don't?"_

 _Emily thought for a moment and glided back toward him, swaying her hips slightly more than anatomically necessary. She tilted her head to the side; "I like when you sing it," she amended._

 _"Then I'll just have to remember it," he said, pushing a stray curl back behind her ear. His hand cradled the back of her neck as he leaned down to kiss her, but a wave of sorrow had washed over her features and she pulled away._

 _"We won't remember anything," she sighed, leaning into his chest and breathing in his scent. "We could die in there," she added, burrowing deeper into his arms._

 _"I'll protect you," he vowed, enjoying the softness and warmth of her small body molded against his. "'Til my last breath."_

 _The song was long over, but as Minho began softly humming the melody – the deep sound echoing through Emily's head, which was resting next to his steady heart – their bodies swayed slowly back and forth as one and she whispered, "We'll protect each other."_

"Minho?" For a moment, while her eyes were still closed in blissful euphoria and the warmth of his touch still lingered on her skin, Emily could pretend that maybe nothing was wrong. She cracked them open, just a slit at first, then widening to a bulge as she took in his unmoving form collapsed on the ground. "Minho!"

She got down on one knee and began shaking him, soft at first, then harder and with greater urgency when he didn't respond. She wanted to scream in frustration – leave it to the Maze to turn a moment of near perfection to absolute shit in the span of half a second.

"Shit. Shitshitshit," she muttered, pacing back and forth trying to decide which of the shitty options to take to get them out of this shitty situation. They were pretty far into the Maze; Emily wasn't sure there was enough time to run back to the Glade, get help, run back to Minho, then run back to the Glade again before sunset. Plus, she wasn't entirely comfortable leaving him there unconscious and alone; Minho seemed certain that no monsters roamed the labyrinth during the day, but Emily had a feeling that the more they thought they knew about this place, the more surprises it would hold for them. On the other hand, Minho felt as solid as he looked; Emily could only lift one of his powerful legs, and then only drag him a few feet before getting winded. She dropped the foot she'd been clinging to with an unceremonious thud and wiped the beading sweat from her forehead. She would have to get help.

 _Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Thumpthump_. The rhythm Emily's slender legs were pounding out against the dirt was quick and light – while Minho was a racehorse, she was a greyhound, whipping along as if part of the wind herself. She practically stumbled over the threshold into the Glade and ran smack into Alby, who had been waiting anxiously by the gate for their return.

Still gasping to refill her lungs and unable to form words, she stared at Alby and pointed in the general direction of the garden. His neck snapped back and forth with comic speed, uncomprehending of her request but eager to please. "Newt," she finally managed. "Charlie," she added, realizing that he'd probably be wherever Newt was, and they could certainly use the extra set of hands. "NOW!" she screeched, the last expulsion of air causing her to double over and brace upper body on her knees for support.

Alby took off, faster than she thought him capable of moving, and came back with the two requested parties in tow. Emily glanced up at the sky; the sun had already disappeared behind the Maze walls, and it wouldn't be long before the sky would start shifting toward the warmer end of the color spectrum. Emily didn't even wait for them to reach her before she took off back into the Maze.

"Emily, wait!" Newt called after her, jogging a few paces toward the Maze.

"Damn, she's fast," Charlie added, easily matching his long stride. Even Alby was shuffling along behind them, but all three stopped just before crossing through the gate. None of them had ever actually gone into the Maze, but they knew what paced the halls and heard stories about what happened if you got stuck in there after sundown; it always ended in an incomprehensible amount of blood.

Emily had already turned the first corner when she realized that no footsteps were frantically trying to keep pace behind her. She skidded to a stop and glanced over her shoulder; they hadn't followed. With only a small growl of frustration, she retraced her steps to find where she'd lost them; they stood face to face on either side of the gate.

"I need. Your help," she ground out, still rather out of breath, and now trying to contain her growing anger, which was borne out of desperation.

"In there?" Charlie asked, more skeptical than afraid.

"What for, love? Just take a breath for a minute and tell us what happened," Newt soothed in his easy, pacifying tone. She could've punched him square in his calm, rational face.

Emily stepped forward a few paces, fists clenched tight. "Minho is in the Maze. Unconscious. Everything was fine – better than fine! He kissed me, and now he's blacked out and I can't wake him up and I tried to get him back but he's just so _heavy_ and –" Emily had started out steady enough, but as her explanation went on, the hysteria began to creep into her voice, which quickly escalated in both speed and pitch.

Newt cut her off when he stepped over the threshold to put a hand on her shoulder. "Okay. Okay, we'll go get him," he assured her. Emily, now with a knot firmly lodged in her throat, simply nodded in acknowledgment. Newt stared at her, and when she made no further move, prompted, "You're going to have to show me where."

"Right," Emily muttered, more to herself than to Newt, and took off back down the passageway.

Charlie trotted up beside Newt and whispered, "Must have been some kiss." He gave Newt a wink before taking after Emily into the Maze. Even Alby, not wanting to be left behind, took a shaky step through the gate. Newt clapped him on the back and offered an encouraging smile, thinking it best to head up the rear to make sure Alby didn't get skittish and wander off to his death, now that he'd finally decided to start living again.

Though running as quickly as they could, they only caught glimpses of her – just a flash of blonde hair that told them which corner to turn down next. When they finally caught up (because she had come to a stop), Emily was already crouched over Minho's limp body; she held his head in her hands, whispering inaudibly into his ear in a futile attempt to awaken his mind. Newt, though he was desperately curious to know what had happened to Minho, glanced upward and noticed a distinct pinkish hue to the sliver of visible sky above them.

"We need to get him out of here. Now," he said with a surprising amount of authority, spurring the others into action. Newt and Charlie each grabbed under one of his arms, hoisting his torso up with a dramatic _Oomph_. Alby grabbed his legs and heaved in time with the other two until Minho was fully off the ground.

They settled into the most comfortable position they could manage – Minho's upper body resting on the backs of Newt and Charlie, his knees hooked around Alby's shoulders. Emily, being the shortest by far, crouched under Minho's back, supporting his torso beneath from the center, and shuffled sideways in time with the others.

They reached the entrance of the gate, which had already begun its creaking nightly ritual, and whisked through with the last rays of the waning sun. They tried to set Minho down gently, but they had expended so much energy bearing a considerable amount of extra weight in uncommon areas that they basically collapsed beneath him in the grass.

Emily, who would have been crushed by this massive descent, rolled out of the way just before Minho's still unmoving form thudded to the ground. "Thank you," she whispered, the sound ragged and wheezing as her lungs tried to adapt to the renewed presence of oxygen. "All of you," she said, gazing pointedly at each of the boys surrounding her. Alby, still unaccustomed to getting involved in others' affairs, wrinkled his nose and withdrew back into the shadows. Charlie flashed a dazzling grin that knocked the wind right back out of both Newt and Emily. Newt gave a shy smile and a shrug, and Emily smiled back sadly; Minho was right – the amount that boy cared about the people here was going to get him into trouble sooner rather than later.

Now that one disaster had been averted, it was time to turn their attention to another: what was wrong with Minho?

The commotion at the gate had garnered a significant crowd of spectators, each offering their own implausible theories as to what had happened. Many kept their distance, fearing that whatever it was would be contagious and wipe out anyone that got too close. Though this was not Emily's suspicion, she decided to perpetuate the rumor; Minho had gotten on more than a few bad sides, and this would at least buy them a few days of peace.

To give themselves a little more privacy – and to quell the fears of the slightly paranoid – they moved Minho's body next to the lake. When they released him, Minho rolled slightly down the bank, revealing a crimson streak that had now saturated most of the back of his shirt. Emily gasped and yanked up the thin fabric, exposing the deep, now inflamed gash that was continuing to weep blood and some sort of sticky, opaque fluid. She reached out and brushed her fingertips across the raised skin, which was hot to the touch.

"It's infected," Newt said, voicing what they were all thinking. "When did this happen? How long has it been spreading?"

"The storm," she answered, mentally kicking herself for letting Minho distract her from assessing his injuries that night.

"This has gone untreated for a _week_?" Newt balked, the magnitude of his incredulity making it sound more like an accusation.

"Well he's not exactly a sharer!" Emily said defensively. At this, Charlie and Newt shared a laugh, but Emily couldn't bring herself to partake. He was a proud, stubborn ass, and it was going to get him killed. "What can we do?"

Newt pursed his lips and rubbed at his jawline. "Clean it, first of all." He wrinkled his nose at the thought, but Emily was already tearing off a scrap of her shirt to dip into the water. Seemingly unfazed by the bodily fluids and potential pain it would cause, she pressed the cool cloth directly over the jagged edges of his skin.

Minho released some primal, guttural moan; his mind recognized that his body was in serious pain, even if it was too shut down to form actual words. Emily's core clenched involuntarily at the sound; she didn't want to hurt him, but this needed to be done. Suppressing the grim satisfaction that came with being right, she continued to press and scrub as gently as possible, systematically releasing the fluid that had built up in the wound and then washing it away. Each time, Minho released sounds that started out as like predatory growls, but eventually dissolved into pathetic whimpers.

When she was finally done, the cut still looked raw and red, but at least it was the healthy red that meant it could start to heal. "So he'll get better now." Emily had meant it as a question, but wanted to believe it so badly that it came out as a statement.

Charlie, who had stayed with Newt by her side while she worked, took to answering when Newt couldn't find the words. "He's strong; he could certainly make a full recovery." He made sure to emphasize the word _could_ , a fact that was not lost on Emily. "If the wound had been treated immediately…" he began, but was cut off by Newt's warning glare; Emily already felt guilty enough for his condition, she didn't need someone else telling her this could have been prevented. "As it is, the infection spread. His immune system is fighting it off, though, so that's a good sign," he added, trying to be positive.

"How long?" she asked. "How long until… we know?" She couldn't bring herself to say 'whether he lives or dies' but it was implied at the end of her question.

Charlie looked to Newt, who shrugged. "I don't think there's any way to know for sure." Emily nodded, assuming as such but still uncomfortable with the uncertainty. "Are you staying here?"

"I don't want to leave him." Newt nodded, knowing that would be her answer.

"Should we bring you some food?" Charlie added. "I think Frypan is cooking up the first batch of bacon tonight."

Emily's stomach twisted at the thought of eating one of the cute little hogs that were as much trapped in the Glade as they were; still, she was quite famished and the thought of some greasy fried pork caused her mouth to water; at least she wouldn't have to be there when he did it. "That would be most appreciated." Charlie stood up straighter, proud of himself for being able to offer some sort of assistance in the situation.

Newt crouched down and squeezed Emily's shoulder. "We'll be back with dinner soon, yeah?"

She reached up and squeezed the hand he had cupped at the base of her neck. When she let go, he stood back up, hooked an arm around Charlie's waist, and the two of them made their way back through the dense forest to the center of the Glade.

Emily laid beside Minho; his body was still fevered, and he was the perfect countermeasure against the cool night air. She gazed at his face, which was more relaxed than she'd ever seen it; she might have even said he looked content, and wished that she could join him in whatever happy place his mind had managed to conjure for him. The exhaustion and fatigue finally settling in her bones, Emily grabbed one of his massive arms, wrapping herself around it like a body pillow; her eyes blinked slowly shut, heavy with imminent sleep, when a cold voice cut through the silence like a knife.

"Well what have we here?" Whit drawled, slithering out from the woods like the snake he was. He smiled a little too wide, revealing far too many teeth, and flicked his tongue against his teeth with a wet smacking sound. "It appears as though the bull has lost his horns." He cocked his head like a curious kitten as Emily untangled herself from Minho and readied herself in a low crouch. "And his only protection is a sweet little lamb who doesn't know any better."


	11. Chapter 11

Emily's head snapped up at Whit's threat, and though she unwrapped herself from around Minho's massive arm, she remained low to the ground in a crouch. Minho was still unconscious, and completely oblivious to the precarious situation he'd found himself in. Whit had not come alone – two of his boys were flanking him, and all three were practically twitching in anticipation of impending violence. It would be three on one, so she figured diplomacy was her best option.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Whit," she said calmly, relinquishing her defensive stance and standing to her full height. This seemed to put the others at ease, believing she was not going to put up a fight; the blade tucked at the small of her back implied otherwise, but it was safer she let them continue to think she wasn't a threat.

"Oh it's always been this way, honey, you just didn't realize it until now."

Whit's condescending attitude was grating on her nerves, but she swallowed back an instigatory retort and pressed on. "I thought you were better than this, Whit," she sighed, now trying to appeal to his ego. "Where is your honor?" Though she was fairly certain he had none, perhaps Whit was as delusional as he was psychopathic.

"Where is _his_ honor?" he shot back, nodding to Minho's still form. "He respects nothing and no one here but himself. He'd kill us all in a heartbeat if it suited him."

Emily cringed – hoping that it was just internal – at how accurate Whit's accusation was. She hadn't known Minho before his violent episode – at least not that she could remember – but she was sure that behind the sullen scowl were haunted eyes and a wounded heart. "Alright, then where is your courage?" she hissed, getting angry now. "Maybe Minho would k-kill," she stuttered, belying the mask of neutrality she was attempting to wear, "but it would never be like this – while his opponent was unconscious, helpless!" She could see Whit's temper flaring at the implication, but she couldn't stop herself from outright saying it. "You're a coward, Whit, and one that could never win a fair fight."

Whit snapped; he would not be spoken to that way. Emily could see the ugly, unrestrained fury dance across his features for a split second before he managed a look of practiced indifference. She tried to look casual as she folded one arm behind her, but Whit was on her before her fingers even skimmed the smooth handle of the knife. He snaked his hand out and clutched at her arm hard enough that it would leave bruises. His other hand rested on her waist, and he took his time sliding his cold, slender fingers across the crest of her hips and down her lower back to retrieve his stolen blade from the waist of her jeans.

He pulled the sharpened metal up so that it was level with her eyes, then pressed the tip into her cheek, though not hard enough to draw blood. Whit still had a tight hold of her forearm, keeping her close as he dragged the metal up in a curve, then down to her chin, repeating the gesture on the other side in a twisted attempt at drawing a heart.

"Why are you so quick to defend him?" he asked, genuinely curious, but mostly just basking in the sense of power he felt he had over her. The blade rested against her neck, and he relished the fact that an inch this way or that, solely at his own discretion, would determine her fate. He wanted her to tremble, to cry, to beg; what he got instead was a brave, defiant smartass.

"Why are you such a masochistic narcissist? The world is full of unanswered questions." Her voice never wavered, but her heart was pounding in her chest and the rational part of her brain was screaming at her not to push the buttons of said masochistic narcissist holding a knife against her jugular.

At this, Whit's two henchmen sniggered; though it was not aimed at him directly, it was still an affront to his authority that could not be tolerated. He used his grip on Emily's arm to wrench her around, the sharp blade slicing a long but shallow line across her throat; he kicked at her knees, causing them to buckle, and used her downward momentum to pin her against the ground.

One hand still trapping her arm behind her back, Whit used the other to grab her hair and shove her head to the rocky ground hard enough that stars danced across her vision. In her moment of disorientation, Whit switched positions with one of his men; the boy who replaced him was much heavier, and knocked the air out of Emily's lungs as he landed on her back, straddling her back.

Whit crouched down so that he was close to Emily's face, but was sure to leave an perfectly unobstructed view of Minho. "I am going to flay your boyfriend alive." He leaned in closer and practically spat in her ear, "And you are going to watch."

Much to Whit's delight, Emily let out an uncontainable whimper and reached out an ineffectual hand toward the boy who was currently fighting for his life in more ways than one. He stood up and walked the rest of the way over to Minho, lifting up the carefully placed bandages and tossing them aside. "Huh! Someone beat me to it," he exclaimed, laughing too hard at his own joke. When no one else even so much as chuckled, his grin turned to a sneer and he lowered the knife to Minho's side. "Let's see how tough you are without your kidneys."

Emily let out a wail that was more animal than human, causing the birds in the trees to startle and take flight as the sound echoed across the water. Her shoulder was killing her, but Emily used her one free arm to push herself away from the ground; it was only a couple inches, but that was all she needed to fold her knee up under her, wedging it against her stomach. The added leverage gave her some room to breathe, to think, and she grabbed at one of the sharp river rocks that had been stabbing at her side on the ground.

"You're three times her size – hold her _down_!" Whit raged, the ruckus pulling his focus away from the painfully intricate patterns he was carving into Minho's skin.

Emily managed to get her other knee under her and used all the force she could muster from her powerful legs to push herself up and away from the ground. They both toppled back, Emily with her back against the boy that still had his arms around her in a vice. At this point, the third member of the pack jumped in to assist.

"About time," Whit mumbled, the grin back on his face as Minho unconsciously groaned, another line of crimson beading along his back. "Useless Neanderthals," he continued insulting mindlessly, glancing back only long enough to make sure Emily was still contained; slightly miffed that her complete attention was not on the beautiful torture he was conducting, Whit decided to up the stakes.

When Minho let out an honest-to-god howl – most likely due to the blade buried hilt-deep between his ribs – Emily froze. Her eyes locked onto his and she swore, just for a second, that there was a flicker of recognition there, that Minho was awake and suffering… and not able to do a goddamn thing about it.

What could she do? How could she help him? She watched in horror as Minho's eyes rolled to the back of his head as his mind slipped back to a place that she prayed was better than this one.

" _What do you see when you look at me?" she asked._

 _Minho paused in his pacing to ponder her tiny form perched on the edge of the table, one leg crossed over the other but both dangling several inches off the ground. He shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other and rubbed at the back of his neck. "You are… very pretty. Your hair," he started, holding out his hand and gesturing in her general direction, "oh, and your eyes!" he exclaimed. He threw his hand in the air dramatically and blew out a deep breath, nodding as if his answer was in any way satisfactory._

 _Emily smiled and leapt gracefully down from her seat, landing as silently as a cat, and practically purring like one too as she stalked up in front of Minho. "I know what I look like, Minho," she explained patiently, "but what do you_ see _?"_

 _Minho was never good with words – he was a man of action, and was pretty damn close to sweeping her off her feet and showing her just what he thought of her. But that was not what she asked of him, so he suppressed his more primal nature and forced his mind to focus on the task proposed._

 _Minho's eyes once again found her face, but this time they were looking beyond what could be seen on the surface. He circled slowly around her, examining every inch as if deconstructing a work of art. With every passing second, Emily became more and more flustered, both uncomfortable and exhilarated at feeling exposed in a way she never had before. Minho was enjoying this experiment, delighted that just his hungry gaze could elicit such a yearning in response. When his eyes returned to hers, she still felt as though he was staring more through her than at her._

 _"You are… deceptive," he began, though he wrinkled his nose, unhappy about the insufficient word choice. "This is a good thing," he added with a smirk when her cheeks flared red and her chest puffed up. "By all appearances, you are small and soft – a delicate flower." Emily rolled her eyes at his clichéd attempts at poeticism. "But inside," he continued, the playfulness in his voice replaced by a deep reverence, "I see a strength that will stand firm even as the Maze walls crumble." Minho took a step closer and leaned down, twisting a strand of Emily's hair between his fingers as he whispered in her ear, "I cannot give you what you want." He inhaled deeply of her lightly floral scent; he wasn't joking about the whole delicate flower thing. "In the same way the radiance of a sunset cannot truly be described to a blind man, so I cannot disgrace the depths of your beauty with mere words."_

 _Emily hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until Minho walked away, chuckling mischievously. Damn, that had been a good speech. She padded along behind him and pounced, utilizing the entirety of her deceptive strength to tackle him to the ground, and choosing to believe the effectiveness of that takedown was in no way affected by Minho's pressing desire to have her on top of him._

Emily's flailing – an impressive, if useless response to Minho's cry – had gotten her off the ground entirely, her small frame easily held in the iron grip of her captor. Minho was slipping – his breathing was labored, his body twitching, and there was blood… so much blood. If she didn't do something, she would lose him. With this thought, and the last remnants of the fire burning within her, she lifted her knees up, curling into a ball. As she swung them back toward the ground, she directed all her momentum forward and down.

Victoriously, her feet landed on the ground; the boy's body lurched forward after her, but his iron grip held firm. He pulled Emily back up into the air and she tucked her knees again and made the same maneuver, this time using her downward trajectory to jam the sharp rock that was pressed in her palm deep into the boy's thigh. Finally, and with a disbelieving shriek, he released her.

The boy staggered back, still staring at the jagged stone buried in his inner thigh; the blood ran in a steady stream down his leg, but when he removed the foreign object it was if a dam had burst. More blood than she thought a body capable of containing began spurting out in quick, violent sprays from the wound and the boy dropped to the ground, turning whiter as his whole leg was enveloped in a deep crimson. Within seconds, his body slumped and his eyes took on the glassy sheen of death.

Emily swallowed the bile threatening to come up her throat and turned to the other boys, who were staring wide-eyed at their fallen comrade. She trudged toward them, one hand still warm and dripping with blood, every muscle clenched to override the trembling mess that tried to overtake her.

"Go." It was more of a growl than an actual word, but it was as coherent a message as she could muster through her tight jaw. Whit and his remaining loyal follower stood there for another beat, until Emily lurched forward another step; then, they took off back into the woods.

As soon as they were out of sight, Emily dropped to her knees; she was shaking so badly that she almost fell completely over. Her hands caught her just before her face planted in the dirt and she grabbed fistfuls of grass, breathing in the earthy, organic scent and trying desperately to regain control of her ragged breaths.

Emily turned her face toward Minho… or, what was left of him after Whit's little art project. Pushing down the guilt and revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her, she put on her best Minho impression and sternly reminded herself that she'd had no choice. That she didn't aim for his artery, didn't want to kill him. That she tried to resolve this peacefully. She did what she had to do to protect herself and the ones she cared about.

Emily repeated this mantra over and over in her head, even as she leaned over the water and expelled the contents of her stomach – her visceral actions eliciting an equally visceral reaction. Images branded into her memory, the sounds and smells and actions and feelings that were so primal that they made her feel less than human. By the time she was done, she was completely numb; either by choice or as a defense mechanism, she didn't know, didn't care. She was just grateful not to feel anything.

Mechanically – just going through the motions, at this point – she checked Minho for a pulse. Faint, but detectable. She tore what was left of her shirt off into more thin strips, dipping them into the lake and laying them in intricate patterns that matched the wounds beneath them; but Whit had been quick and greedy, and there were more open wounds than she had fabric for.

Emily slid off her jeans, ripping apart the thick fabric at whatever seams and holes and threadbare sections she could find. One of the pockets she rolled up and stuffed into the deep puncture wound Whit had left in his side, and even Minho's answering moan was not enough to pull a sympathy pang from the emotions Emily had so firmly repressed.

When she was done, Emily didn't know what to do. She didn't particularly want to stay, but she also couldn't leave; so she sat on a rather large, flat rock by the lake, crossing her legs and leaning forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. She stared at Minho as long as she could, watching the steady rise and fall of his torso that meant that he was still breathing – for now – before turning to face out over the water. She had been so scared of Minho, that night after talking to Alby, unable to comprehend how he could turn on the only people he had in the world. How he could be so angry and closed off. How he could possibly believe that solitude and indifference were more desirable than companionship and trust. Now she understood; she wished she didn't.

That was how Newt and Charlie found her – on a rock, in nothing but her undergarments, with two bloodied bodies by her side and an unreadable expression on her face. The plate Charlie had been carrying thudded to the ground as he raced over to the boy lying lifeless a few feet from Minho.

"He's dead," Emily stated the obvious, though Charlie still pressed his fingers against the boy's neck. When he looked back at her, his face darkened. "I don't even know his name." Charlie seemed to take her offhand and bland remarks as flippant, as if the magnitude and horror of her actions were completely lost on her.

"What happened?" he asked in accusation, rising from the ground and approaching her slowly. Newt was still frozen by the plate of dropped food, his eyes darting frantically around the scene in trying to complete a puzzle he didn't have all the pieces to.

"I killed him." Emily was completely shut down, but all the emotional energy that should have been coursing through her body seemed to transfer to Charlie. He leaped over the last few feet to stand in front of her and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.

"What did you do? What did you DO?" He was practically shouting at her, jostling her so hard that she was almost thrown from her perch.

Finally, with a disbelieving shake of his head, Newt had gotten his bearings enough to step in. He placed a steadying hand on Charlie's forearm, which stopped the violent shaking long enough for Emily to regain her balance. "Look at her," he prompted, waiting for Charlie's wild eyes to leave their fixed position on hers. They both looked at her – really looked. She was nearly naked, all her clothes now draped across Minho's now even worse-looking unconscious form; her arm was hanging awkwardly by her side, the bones of one shoulder jutting out at unnatural angles; and there were bright, nasty bruises already forming down one side of her face and arm, and an angry red slit from one side of her neck to the other.

Newt's slender fingers traveled down Charlie's arm to his wrist, prying one hand, then the other off Emily's petite shoulders. "Who did this to you?" Newt asked in his gentle, even tone.

"Not to me." Emily shook her head, as if some thought related to the last couple hours was trying to weasel its way through her carefully constructed fog and she was fighting to push it back down.

"Minho?" Newt asked, incredulous. "But he's –"

"An easy threat to eliminate," Charlie finished, though that's not what Newt was going to say. Charlie, though he'd been in the Glade a much shorter time, seemed to have a better grasp of their situation; a more cynical one, at least.

"A threat to what? Levity and humor, maybe, but why in the bloody hell would anyone want to _eliminate_ him?"

On any other day, Emily would have smiled at Newt's naiveté. He was sweet – knew just enough to get himself into trouble, and not enough to get himself back out of it. Instead, she simply stood up and walked over to the abandoned plate of food and picked it up from the ground; most of it had fallen straight back onto the dish anyway. She toted it back to her rock and devoured half the plate before looking up and realizing Charlie and Newt were staring at her like she'd grown a second head.

"Do you happen to have a needle and thread?" she asked, picking at a piece of corn that had gotten stuck in her teeth. Charlie and Newt were still at a complete loss, so she gestured to Minho's prone form, whose bandages were slowly darkening to a deep red. "Must be running out of blood," she joked casually, popping a piece of biscuit into her mouth and chewing openmouthed. Now they looked at her like she had three heads.


	12. Chapter 12

The next few days passed in a hazy blur; Emily was aware of her surroundings, but numb to them. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, each indistinguishable from the last.

Newt and Charlie had taken care of many things in the wake of Emily's unstable mental state. They took the boy's body and buried it with the rest of their dead, adding his name to those etched in the Maze wall. Emily didn't attend the ceremony, but Newt took care to describe it to her in delicate detail.

"Huh. He didn't look like a 'Nick'," was Emily's only comment on the whole affair.

Charlie was annoyed and upset by her nonchalance; he interpreted it to mean that she didn't care, didn't understand the gravity of her actions. But Charlie wouldn't understand. He was tall and strong and fast, and his body and skills had granted him a position of relative authority as soon as he'd stepped out of the box. Newt had been around a little longer, and better understood the tenuous social structure of the Glade. He offered Emily a little more grace, which was more than she allowed herself.

She would not leave Minho's side, nor would she let anyone else get within ten feet of him. She was like a predator guarding its kill; she had killed for him, after all. The one time Alby dared to swipe at a wayward insect that was crawling up Minho's arm, Emily's eyes went wild and she practically tackled him to the ground; she probably irreparably damaged the progress he was making toward social interaction, but she didn't care. She stitched together every inch of torn skin with speed and precision; she covered him in cool cloths when his fever spiked; she poured more broth down his throat than she bothered to consume herself.

Minho was unmoving for a solid week before the stirrings of consciousness began to surface. It was the middle of the day, when the boys would normally be bathing or even just seeking refuge from the beating down sun, but at that moment the lake was vacant. Emily was lying in parallel to Minho, watching him while he slept.

His eyes cracked open, blinking and unseeing for a few moments as they adjusted to the unaccustomed amount of light pouring in. He knew where he was – recognized the scents, the sounds – but something felt off as his groggy mind attempted to piece together the memories of his recent past. He was on his stomach, and shifted his arm to lever himself off the ground; pain exploded across his back and he flopped back down, the wind knocked out of him from the brief and unexpected jolt.

Slower this time, Minho began testing the state of each of his muscles from his neck down to his toes. Most of the issues seemed to span his torso, and when he was accustomed enough to the unfamiliar sensations, he began to feel more nuances in his injuries. It wasn't just one giant, terrible lance across his back, but more like a thousand smaller, unique wounds, each bringing their own unique kinds of pain. Some stung, others ached, and a few even throbbed or pierced.

All of this, though, was forgotten as his gaze landed on the angel lying next to him. She was staring at him, but something was different, wrong. She possessed the same golden waves, piercing green eyes, angular pixie face; but she looked… harder, more cold and calculated. He reached out and tilted her chin toward the sun, as if its rays could illuminate the darkness clouding her expression.

"What happened?" His voice was hoarse and dry with disuse, but it didn't matter. His question was ignored as she closed the distance between them, crushing her lips against his. It wasn't like the last time; this kiss was insistent and desperate, and Minho pulled away a few inches, angling onto his side. "Emily, what's wrong? What happened?" he reiterated.

Her eyes narrowed and lips turned down into a frown. "I don't want to talk about it." She closed the distance between them and tried to kiss him again. He broke it a second time.

"Emily –"

"Since when are you a big talker? You're alive. I'm alive. Let's just make the most of it." Emily was practically growling at him; she knew it wasn't the most romantic of propositions, but now that she was no longer consumed with the need to protect Minho, she needed to otherwise occupy her mind.

This time, Emily moved in on him with her whole body. She moved up and over, repositioning Minho onto his back and straddling his hips with her knees. Her hair fell like a waterfall around his face as she leaned forward, skimming her hands over the less damaged skin of his chest and arms.

"Emily –" he began again, and was again cut off when her mouth closed over his. Her tongue skimmed over his teeth and flicked into the open space, inviting his own to participate in the erotic dance. She nipped at his bottom lip, tugging at the swollen flesh ever so gently and grinding her hips slowly on top of his. The added friction drew a soft moan from Emily and her eyelids fluttered in pleasure; Minho tried to remain chivalrous, or at the very least reasonable, but...

 _Ah, screw it_.

Ignoring the searing tug of his wounds, Minho propped himself up on one arm and used the opposite hand to cradle her skull. He pulled her closer and kissed her until he finally needed to come up for air. Even then, Emily continued to trail her lips down his chin and up the line of his jaw, pausing to tease his earlobe before mirroring the action on the other side of his face.

Minho laid back down and moved his hand to the outside of her thighs, digging his fingers into the soft but muscled flesh as her ministrations sent pleasurable tingles coursing throughout his body. Emily had moved lower, planting kisses down his neck and across his collarbone. His hands traveled up her leg and molded around her hips, pulling her warm center flush against his exposed skin.

Minho bucked his hips up ever so slightly; in response, and almost involuntarily, Emily lightly sunk her teeth into the thick layer of muscle sitting like a shelf on top of his shoulders. Suddenly, he wanted his lips on hers, and guided her mouth back toward his face. It wasn't until he ran his fingers over her ear and brushed his thumb across her cheek that he noticed the excess moisture falling from Emily's eyes.

Emily hadn't even realized she'd started crying, but when Minho paused she hastily swiped at the tears and tried resuming the kiss. It took all of Minho's self control – why did doing the right thing have to be so damn difficult? – but he wrapped his large hands over her shoulders and pushed her a few inches further from him.

"Emily, what –"

"Please." Her arms flopped to her sides; her eyes closed and she bowed her head as if praying. "Please, please, please." She didn't even know what she was asking for – his love, his body, his acceptance. She just knew that it was something that, in this particular moment of self-loathing and doubt, she could not provide for herself.

Minho was at a loss. Even his emotionally stunted brain was flashing a bright red warning sign to his currently aroused and unconcerned body. Emily tried to lean forward and press her body against his, but his strong arms easily resisted. They remained frozen like that for several seconds; finally, in one last ditch effort, Emily trailed her hands down the center of his chest, into the grooves of his abs, and finally down to explore beneath his belly button.

"Emily, stop!" Minho barked, jerking his hips to the side and effectively throwing her off of him. The reaction was harsher than he'd intended, but he was dangerously close to allowing himself to disregard whatever little self-control he still possessed. He ached with unreleased tension, and couldn't look at her for several long seconds.

"Minho –"

"Just… stop." He closed his eyes and took a few ragged breaths, trying to regain the absolute control over his baser instincts he prided himself on. Until this particular moment, anyway. His resolve wavered when he looked back at Emily.

Emily could feel her whole body heating up; she didn't know which emotion was driving the blush – embarrassment, anger, hurt, frustration. Minho didn't even know the horrible things she'd done since his illness, but still he rejected her. "I should've just let him kill you," she hissed. She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, but a small part of her meant them. It was unfair – the rational part of her mind recognized that it wasn't Minho's fault – but she couldn't help blaming him for her own guilt, which was borne out of the actions she'd taken to save his life. Unable to bear the weight of his unwavering gaze, Emily pushed herself up from the ground and stalked away.

"Emily, wait." Minho tried to get up, but he moved too quickly and tore some of the stitches across his back – a treatment he didn't remember getting. What the hell had happened around there while he was out? He could feel a warm trail drizzle down his spine and reached back. "Shuck," he muttered, frowning at the swath of crimson staining his palm.

Newt broke through the tree line just as Emily stomped angrily past him. It was further than she'd ventured in days, and he whipped his head back in confusion at Minho's upright yet unsteady form.

"What in the bloody hell just happened?" he asked, setting aside the bowl of soup he'd become accustomed to bringing there over the last few days.

"I was going to ask you the same question."

Newt swallowed and pursed his lips. On the one hand, this wasn't his story to tell. On the other hand, Minho was inviting him to engage in more interaction than they'd ever had in all their time there. In the end, Newt's desire for relationship won out and he explained as much of the situation as he knew.

When he was finished, Minho was practically shaking. He was definitely angry – enraged, even, to the point of violence, but that was nothing new. The difference was this fire did not burn on behalf of himself. No, his ire was fueled by what Emily had lost; by what they'd _taken_ from her.

"So Whit," Minho spat, landing hard on the 't', "tried to kill her."

"Technically, he tried to kill you. Only threatened to kill her."

Semantics. Minho mentally kicked himself; he had known Whit was a spineless, underhanded snake, but underestimated the magnitude of the stupidity his fellow Gladers must have possessed to be willing to submit to his leadership.

"It's time someone put an end to his threats," Minho seethed, taking a step toward the woods.

"Uh, I don't think that's a good idea," Newt warned, placing a hand on Minho's chest to bring him pause. Newt removed it and took a step back when Minho's lip twitched into a snarl. "Look, I know you're angry." Minho snorted at the understatement of the century. "But people are already riled up after what happened. There are two very different stories going around of what actually went down, and, well…"

"Well _what_?" Minho prompted when he didn't continue.

"Whit's version… is being… corroborated," he finished slowly.

"By who?" It was more of an exclamation of incredulity than a question. He knew exactly the kind of person – if you used the term very, very loosely – Whit was, and the only kind of people that would back him were the ones who feared him. Whit was less in almost every way, but what he lacked in strength, courage, and goddamn sense, he more than made up for in a ruthlessness that was both absolute and merciless.

"I'm just saying – an eye for an eye only makes the world blind."

"I wouldn't be going for his eyes," Minho ground out through clenched teeth.

"Fine – but then what? You can't just go around killing anyone who disagrees with you." Minho narrowed his eyes, considering accepting the challenge at that very moment. Newt crossed his arms over his chest defensively, but didn't back down. "If this is ever going to work, we need to find a way to coexist peacefully."

They stood at an impasse for several seconds until Minho threw his hands up in the air. "Why the hell would you think this is ever going to work?" He stormed past Newt, his fists already clenching and unclenching in anticipation.

"Emily thinks it can." It was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to stop Minho in his tracks. Newt walked up behind him and hesitated just a moment before putting a hand on his massive shoulder. "If you really think you're doing this for her, don't you think you should at least have the decency to ask her if this is what she wants first?"

Minho wrenched himself from Newt's grasp, but paused for a thoughtful moment before making his way through the trees. Newt sighed and picked the bowl of soup back up, perching on a large boulder that overlooked the lake and admiring the way the shimmering light gave the illusion of movement across the otherwise still waters.

When he reached the clearing in the center of the Glade, Minho was disappointed to find that Whit was nowhere in sight. He saw Emily speaking in hushed tones to Alby, but upon his first step in their direction she took off toward the Maze. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have hesitated to follow her; as it was, Minho could barely walk without wincing, and Emily's sprinting speed was much faster even on his best day.

"Where is he?" Minho demanded, grabbing Alby by the front of his shirt with surprising force.

Alby squeaked, but to his credit, didn't attempt to flee. "Who?"

Minho leaned in close enough that his hot, angry breaths washed over Alby's face. "The coward that literally stabbed a defenseless man in the back." As if he didn't know. As if the whole damn Glade didn't know. "Now where?"

Alby's eyes darted around to the crowd beginning to form around them. "I- I don't know where he is," he stuttered, licking his lips. He knew what Minho was capable of – what he had already done – and he was not anxious to repeat the past. "Let's just slow down here for a minute."

"I've been slow – too slow, for too long." He took a good look at his old friend – he saw the determined calm desperately trying to conceal the paralyzing fear that Alby had clung to for so long. He might have been proud if he wasn't so damn pissed off. "He can't get away with this," he said, eyes boring into Alby and willing him to understand.

In that moment, for the first time since Minho had lost himself – to the rage, then the grief – Alby saw something in his expression that gave him hope. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but he could see that Minho wasn't just looking for an easy, mindless outlet for a bout of arbitrary aggression. He actually cared for someone enough to risk his painstakingly constructed neutrality and isolation to protect them. To protect _her_.

Alby put his hands over Minho's and gently pried them off his shirt. "You're right. There should be consequences." He stared at Minho, who nodded slowly in confirmation. "But there's nothing we can do about that at the moment." Minho narrowed his eyes as they flicked around to each of the boys circled around them; he could think of a few things they could do.

Charlie stepped forward to stand at Alby's right in a show of support. "There are more constructive things we could be doing than initiating a witch hunt." The lawlessness of this place grated on his nerves, and though Newt had assured him that Emily's account would have been the accurate one, Charlie knew that there were always two sides to every story and he wasn't so quick to trust.

"Newt?" Minho inquired as the other boy appeared. Newt was only the slightest bit sheepish as he stood beside Charlie, who took his hand and interlaced their fingers. A slight flush crept across his face, but those two were anything but subtle and the gesture came as no surprise to anyone else.

"He's not wrong. It's- it's what I was trying to tell you…" he trailed off, leaning into Charlie now for physical support as much as emotional.

Minho was outnumbered and, for the moment, didn't have any better options. "Fine," he grumbled, snatching whatever blueprint Charlie had in his other hand as he broke through their little line of solidarity.

Despite his reluctance, Minho actually found the work to be a pleasant distraction from his inability to reconcile either of his conflicting desires. Whit remained elusive, and Emily escaped into the Maze at every sunrise, so Minho settled for exhausting his still weakened body during the day with manual labor, and collapsing in a deep recovery slumber at night.

After several weeks, Minho felt almost normal; his olive skin, deeply tanned by the sun, mostly concealed the shiny pink scars decorating his upper body. The bones of the Homestead were already in place, and if possible the muscles in his back and arms were now even stronger and more defined than before his injuries. Still, his legs were restless – practically twitching with the need to stretch and explode beneath the weight of his powerful stride.

The next morning, he happened awake while it was still dark and made his way over to the unbroken pre-dawn wall. Minho leaned there, unmoving, until the sky lightened to the cool shades of purple morning. His eyes barely registered the dimly illuminated shapes, but he felt a swift, concentrated breeze wash over him, dusted with the scent of flowers that always seemed to surround her. "Emily," he acknowledged into the still air.

She responded with a noise that could have been a string of profanities, but came out so high pitched and strained that it was unintelligible. "Don't _do_ that," she admonished, still clutching a hand over her heart and trying to suppress the trembling that came with the shot of adrenaline produced by her startled endocrine system.

Minho stepped closer to her. "We never got to talk about what happened by the lake." He wrapped a hand around her waist and brushed his thumb across the crest of her hip bone.

"There's… nothing to talk about." Emily refused to look at him.

"Hmm, you're right," he purred. "I've been spending too much time with Newt." He placed his other hand at the small of her back and pulled her against his chest, resting his forehead against hers. "Too much talking." Minho brushed his lips across the creases that had formed between her brows.

"Don't," she said, stepping back and pivoting away from him. "You don't… you don't have to."

"Don't have to what?"

Emily shrugged. "You saved my life, I saved yours. We're even. You don't –" She looked up and took a deep breath. "You don't owe me anything, Minho."

Minho's eyes went wide. Is that what she thought? That _she_ was taking advantage of _him_? Honest to god, he would have busted out laughing if it weren't for the truly strained and completely serious look on her face.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a team player now," he teased, eyes still twinkling with amusement as they glanced toward the obvious progress made on their future dwelling. "We're all in this together." He meant the words to be comforting, but his smirk dissipated when a shadow of anguish washed over her features.

"Not all of us," Emily amended, wincing as if the emotional memory packed a physical blow.

Minho clamped his jaw shut; he hated seeing her carry so much guilt. He had done much more – over much less – but her ghosts were much more recent, still raw and angry and stinging, and robbing her of any chance at joy. He would not allow it.

"Things are changing." It wasn't a lie, though she cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. "I think…" Minho reached up and brushed her hair behind her shoulder, resting his hand in the crook of her neck. "I think we deserve a new start. A clean slate." His fingertips grazed her collarbone and played at the collar of her shirt. "Maybe not too clean." The smirk was back as they dipped beneath the fabric, but Emily spun around and took off when the gate finally creaked open behind her. "We'll continue this when you get back!" he called after her, moseying off to help Frypan with kitchen duty today; he wanted to conserve his energy for that night.

After several weeks of solo exploration, Emily had a fairly good grasp of direction in the Maze, but the unexpected interaction with Minho that morning had left her perpetually flustered. She found herself in more circular loops and dead ends than she'd experienced her very first day. It was taking all of her concentration just to remember which wrong turns she had taken when. Her mind was preoccupied with both keeping track of her own feet and playing out every possible Minho-related scenario upon her return to the Glade. And so she was completely unaware of the danger that awaited her around the next corner.


	13. Chapter 13

Newt figured this would happen sooner or later. They may have been successful in distracting Minho for the moment – hell, he might have even enjoyed the distraction the tiniest bit – but eventually he would get back to his original mission. So he wasn't surprised when he awoke to see Minho and Emily exchanging whispered words in the shadows of the Maze wall.

Not wanting to interrupt – for either of their sakes – Newt waiting until Emily darted through the narrow opening before approaching Minho. He cleared his throat loudly behind his massive frame.

"Minho."

Minho spun around, the trace of a playful smile still on his lips turning into a grimace at that stupid, knowing, damn near patronizing grin Newt had plastered across his face. "Oh _what_?"

"Nothing, nothing." Newt pressed his lips together, though his eyes still glinted with amusement. "So you're not, uh…" He gestured in the general direction of the gate, then pumped his arms back and forth as if pretending to run.

Minho narrowed his eyes. "Not today. Have some… things… to work out first." He couldn't help the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth at the effect he still seemed to have on Emily's various physical and mental faculties.

"Good. I'm glad you're making… friends." Newt kicked at the ground for a moment, trying and failing to choose his words carefully. Charlie had encouraged him to have this talk with Minho, now that he seemed to have recovered, about where he would fit into this new – and hopefully diplomatic and non-violent – society they were attempting to build. "Minho, I've been meaning to talk to you. About… Whit."

Minho tensed, any hint of levity gone. "Where is he? Did you see him?" Without giving him a chance to respond, he stepped forward and grabbed Newt roughly by the collar. "Where, Newt?"

"Minho, I honestly don't know. But he might be more likely to show up if you took the bounty off his head." Newt frowned, more in sadness than in anger. He wasn't sure whether Minho would ever be able to let go of his anger. "And I know what he did to you," he began when Minho started to protest. "But if this is ever going to work, we have to start somewhere. Someone has to be the first to extend the olive branch."

Minho laughed mirthlessly; what had he ever done that gave the impression that he would be that person? "Do you really think a cease-fire would make Whit any less of a monster?" When fighting for your life – which Minho believed without a doubt was exactly what they were doing – people would always choose to do what was best for themselves. "It won't work."

"We have to try." Newt had his suspicions that Minho was right, but he also knew that they didn't have any other options. Before he could continue the argument, Minho released his grip and crossed his arms over his chest.

"The Glade will never be safe for –" He wanted to say for her, but he couldn't very well justify sacrificing the future of their community for the sake of one. "For anyone." It was probably true anyway. "He's insane. And dangerous." That was definitely true; he had the scars to prove it.

Newt pursed his lips, but didn't deny it. "Well, we will need to come up with some alternative options. Some way to hold people accountable for their actions."

Minho grimaced; he was certain these other courses of action would not be nearly as satisfying as what he had in mind. "Fine – let me know when you've figured out your _alternative options_ ," he snorted derisively as he turned to walk away. While they were figuring them out, Minho would stick to his tried-and-true solution.

It is for this reason that Newt decides not to tell Minho when he sees someone skulking around the perimeter of the Glade. He couldn't make out who it was, but he thought he recognized the silent, slithery gait as Whit's – or at least one of his gang, who must have spent enough time with him to adopt some of his mannerisms.

Around midday, several of those forms slip through the open gate – through the same quarter of the Maze that Emily had entered that morning. Alarm bells went off in Newt's head, but he had never been in the Maze before and would most certainly get lost if he tried to go in alone. The alternative was getting Minho to guide him, but he couldn't be certain he could stop Minho from doing something irreparable. So instead he simply waited around near the opening and listened, hoping that Whit hadn't planned something equally reprehensible.

He knew he had made the wrong choice when a faint scream reached his ears; it came from the Maze, and was distinctly female. "Shuck," he muttered, taking off through the entrance.

WHAM! The momentum that Emily carried from her quick pace through the Maze collided with an unseen force, tackling her to the ground and knocking the wind out of her. She tried to regain her breath, to figure out what the hell had just happened, but a heavy weight had settled on her back and she couldn't take anything but shallow, panting breaths.

"Fancy _run_ ning into you here," Whit hissed, chuckling at his own pun. Emily struggled against him, but his long legs straddled her waist and his powerful grip held her hands at her sides, pinning her to the ground. "This will go much easier if you don't struggle," he soothed, freeing one hand so that he could stroke her long hair. Emily took the opportunity to elbow him in the stomach, but she couldn't get enough power behind the strike to do anything more than piss him off. Whit yanked on the section of hair he was holding, lifting Emily's head and slamming it back down into the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. Emily was beginning to see stars.

With her brain momentarily disconnected from control over her limbs, Whit used the opportunity to roam his hands all over her body, taking his time exploring her curvier areas. When he dipped his hand – which was somehow frigid even in the heat of the day – beneath the hem of her shirt, Emily began to panic. She was powerless in this position; he was almost twice her size, and she had no leverage while she remained on her stomach. "What? Can't even look me in the eye while you fuck me against my will?" she seethed, hoping to both incite his rage and offend his pride.

It worked. Whit got to his feet, still hovering over her in a squat, and easily – and more violently than necessary – flipped her over onto her back. "What did you say to me, whore?" he snarled, pinning her arms above her head with one massive hand, backhanding her across the face with the other.

Emily didn't care – she'd gotten what she wanted. She actually smiled at how easy he was to manipulate, which earned her another migraine-inducing blow to her already tender cheek. A hiss of pain escaped her lips, which seemed to please her captor. As his hands and eyes went back under her shirt, traveling quickly north, she slid her feet toward her butt, raising her knees into the air. The movement jostled her hips, closing the gap between Whit's legs and her waist; she could feel his arousal pressing urgently against her stomach and almost gagged at the seductive look in his eyes. Did he actually think she was enjoying this?

Unable to look at his disgusting face another second, Emily used the new angle of her body to thrust her hips up high into the air, pushing through her heels and bucking to the side, throwing her much larger opponent enough to break free of his grasp. When he reached for her leg, she kicked him in the face, eliciting a loud crunch and a small wail. A stream of blood trickled out of his now broken nose, and his face contorted and stretched into an almost inhuman mask of disdain and ire.

Emily ran, faster than she would have believed her legs could carry her. She had a head start; Whit was momentarily stunned by the counterattack, and while she was sure he'd never attempt a stunt like this on his own, Whit's lackeys would not do anything without his say-so. With any luck, they'd never find their way back out of the Maze.

But Emily had never been lucky. Though she was small and quick, her pursuers had long legs and a lethal rage to fuel them. She made it just within sight of the exit when she knew she'd lost any advantage she'd gained.

"HELP ME!" she screamed, though she had little oxygen left in her lungs with which to power it, and it came out as more of an unintelligible rasp. Whit leapt impossibly high into the air, in one seamless motion both closing the distance between them and trapping her once again against the ground. For several long moments, no one came; she was afraid that no one had heard her, or worse, that they had and just didn't care enough to bother.

But then Newt came bounding around the corner. Only Newt. He wasted no time in slamming into Whit, knocking him to the side. The other four were on him in an instant, like a pack of lions hunting a buffalo.

Newt was a good fighter – scrappy and quick. When both his arms were held captive by two different boys, he planted one foot firmly on the ground and lifted the other so that it was even with their heads; he swung around in a half circle, twisting his shoulders to unnatural angles, but managing to land a kick to each of them and free his upper body. As good as he was, Newt was outnumbered and out-tempered. Emily helped where she could, landing swift blows to their knees and causing them to buckle, or lashing a quick jab to their ribs.

No one else had come to help, and they were soon going to lose. It took Whit and three of his boys to hold down Newt; the other was holding Emily, who was dragged over next to her co-conspirator.

Whit ran his tongue along the blood beading from his lip, seeming to almost enjoy the taste, the pain. The victorious glint had returned to his eyes as he stalked toward his captive prey. "You really should have taken the easy way," he warned, his smirk coming out more as a snarl.

"Run," Newt whispered.

"What?" How were they supposed to run in their current situation?

"Run!" Newt yelled this time, throwing his weight to the side and knocking one of the boys holding him into Emily's captor. All four of them tumbled to the ground and Emily scrambled out of the mass of kicking legs and flailing arms.

Whit stepped right in front of her, unfazed by the escape attempt. He pulled her up painfully by her long hair, but before he could threaten her further, she stomped on his foot with all the force her tiny body could muster. It was enough for him to instinctively release his hold, but before she could get out of reach, he grabbed her bicep hard enough to leave bruises.

He was so focused on Emily that he didn't see Newt crawl over until he was right at their feet. He whipped one of his long legs up and kneed Whit in the groin. "Run," he insisted again when Whit finally doubled over and released his hold on her. Emily was torn; she couldn't imagine what Whit would do to Newt if she abandoned him there. But she absolutely knew her own fate if she stayed.

Emily ran. She was ashamed at the depths of her cowardice, but her terror had outweighed her shame in that moment. She sprinted toward the open gate, trying to ignore the stream of curses, the frustrated howls of anger, the sickening snap of bone, the wails of pain. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other, as fast as humanly possible. Left, right, left, breathe. Right, left, right, breathe.

She made it halfway across the Glade before once again being overtaken from behind. This time, Whit was beyond words, making only animal-like grunts and clawing at what remained of her clothes. His four co-conspirators each held down one of her limbs, leaving Whit free to do as he liked with her center. Newt was nowhere to be seen, and she didn't want to think about what that might mean for him.

Now that he was back in control, Whit could take his time – savor the humiliation and rage and fear he was eliciting. The other Gladers had begun to gather around them; she pleaded with them, but they would not look into her eyes and did nothing to try and stop what was happening. There was nothing more she could do, so she simply stopped struggling. She felt sick; she didn't know which emotion weighed heaviest on her mind, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of displaying any of them.

Emily didn't make a sound as Whit tore open her shirt, exposing her bare chest to everyone in the Glade; when he was done groping here there, though, she couldn't help the small whimper that escaped her lips as his hands ventured lower. He chose not to expose her there – allowing only himself the pleasure of exploring her gentle folds. Her jaw ached with the force of her clenched teeth, just praying it would be over soon.

Minho hadn't heard the commotion – Frypan had instructed him to wrangle one of the chickens for dinner. Those creatures were much faster and louder than he could have imagined, and when he finally had hold of the squawking bird and carried it inside, the cook was nowhere to be found. Minho abandoned the panicked chicken and stepped through the door, which had been left suspiciously ajar. A crowd was gathered near the center of the Glade, though he could not see why they were there. Anything that he could have imagined was nothing compared to what awaited him when he pushed the onlookers aside.

Emily was lying on the ground, nearly naked and still as a statue, held down by four men, with a fifth straddling her hips and violating her intimately with his hands. It was obvious that Emily had been out of options, but how could she possibly look so relaxed? The only indication that she wasn't exactly where she wanted to be was the tightening around her eyes that screamed with a pain that went beyond physical, and the slight tremor that ran through her muscles every time Whit adjusted his hands on her.

Minho had known Whit was a sonofabitch, but he never thought he'd take it this far. But he didn't know who he was more disgusted with – Whit, or every other Glader that stood by and watched it happen. Minho was filled with a fury that went beyond rational or righteous. Without even thinking, he picked off the outer ring one by one, his conditioned arms easily flinging them to the side. Before they could recover their formation, Minho had yanked Whit off of Emily by the scruff of his neck and thrown him to the ground a good distance away. His next move should have been to check on the traumatized girl at his feet, but his head was still clouded by a murderous rage that would only be satisfied by blood.

Whit had lithely leapt up, prepared to defend his kill, until he saw the look in Minho's eyes. Minho was a wall of solid muscle, a wall that would undoubtedly crush Whit into an unrecognizable pulp. With their leader backing up and raising his hands in surrender, the pack didn't know what to do. If Minho had been thinking at all, he could have almost laughed at the weakness of their group, falling apart and unable to cope with a single unstoppable obstacle.

Whit's cowering form made Minho's massive frame look even larger, but before he could deal his lethal justice, Alby stepped in front of him.

"You can't kill him," he stated clearly and with absolute authority.

Minho was so taken aback, by Alby's presence as well as his proclamation, that he stopped short, eyes widening to a comically large circumference. "Excuse me?" he spat, incredulous. "Did you _see_ what he just did? Did any of you?" he raged, in one question reining judgment upon the entire Glade.

Alby shook his head. Not one for crowds, he hadn't seen what was going on, but his nervous glances around Minho's hulking mass told him that Alby could easily infer exactly what had happened. "It doesn't matter. If –"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT DOESN'T MATTER?" Minho roared.

Alby thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully so as not to anger Minho further. "We are in this place together, for better or worse. We had no rules, no one to tell us what we could and couldn't do." Minho couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But that stops now. Obviously, we need to establish some basic tenets to live by, so that everyone can coexist peacefully, and develop appropriate disciplinary actions for violating those laws." On some level, Minho agreed, but his words were so damn rational that he just wanted to punch him too, and he didn't see how Alby's proposition should stop him from throwing Whit and his lackeys to the grievers. Alby, seeing Minho's uncomprehension, sighed. "We will have those things, but we have not until this point. And, while I agree they should be punished, this community is all of ours, and I believe we should all decide what that punishment should be." Alby raised his eyebrows, expecting that to be the end of the argument.

"Hell. No." Minho ground out between his teeth. "They get what's coming to them. Right here, right now." Minho took a step forward; he was going to start swinging, and if Alby happened to be the first one in his way, so be it.

He wasn't prepared for the soft hand that gently pressed against his chest. He looked down to see a pair of determined, earthy eyes staring back up at him. Emily had tied the remains of her shirt into a knot at the front to cover herself, and stood as tall as she could make herself – which was still a full head shorter than Minho. "I agree with Alby," she stated calmly.

"What?" everyone asked in one collective breath.

Emily turned around to face Whit, Alby, and the entire crowd of Gladers. "Alby is right. If we are going to survive in this place, we are only going to do it together, as a community." Minho was in awe of this woman. She had been humiliated, beaten, exposed; yet here she was, standing firm in front of those that had contributed to that pain and insisting that they use it as a catalyst for establishing order and trust. Strong, articulate, calm. That was all she said before spinning around and marching away from the group.

"Even the victim here believes this is the best way to move forward," Alby began, launching into what would be the first of many council meetings to decide on what commandments would govern the Glade and its residents. Minho could not and would not listen to the frogs make peace with the scorpions, and so took off after Emily. He didn't want to spook her, so he only followed behind, stopping when she stopped.

She hadn't really realized where she was going, but found herself standing outside of Minho's tent. She stood there for a moment, well out of sight and earshot of the group she'd left behind.

Emily had refused to show her weakness in front of the others – determined not to be ashamed of being the victim – but now she was beginning to crumble. Her breaths were coming too quickly and she was shaking from head to toe; soon her knees gave out and she fell to the ground, wrapping her arms around her middle and simply trying to hold herself together.

Minho expected Emily to be a lot of things – furious, terrified, disgusted; all the things that he was. Instead, all he saw was brokenness. For the first time, Minho wished that he could bear the weight of another's pain. His heart ached for her, but he was never good with words, and comforted her the only way he knew how.

Suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around Emily; if it had been anyone else, she would have recoiled. The embrace felt so familiar, but despite this being one of the first times she could _remember_ being in Minho's grasp, she could still feel how perfectly she was molded to his form. Her head tucked snugly under his chin as she leaned into his chest, shielded against the pain of the world by his powerful bands of muscle, strong as steel and sheathed beneath a layer of smooth, olive skin.

Minho had grabbed her tightly, hoping to hold her together, but his strong arms shattered the tenuous fragments of her soul and she fell to pieces in his grasp. Her cries were soft and muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but the sound shattered something inside him too – the walls he'd so carefully constructed around his heart. They fall asleep like that – wrapped in each other's arms – and tomorrow they would wake up in a different world.


End file.
